


Running Up That Hill With Terminal Velocity And No Control

by tco



Series: All blessings counted, no countings blessed [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel as God, Coercion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Destiel - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Genderbending, Godstiel - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, Season/Series 07, Unhealthy Relationships, deancas bigbang, deancentric, do i tag this as mpreg or, genderbent!dean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: It’s mind-blowing to have a tempest fall for you. And terrifying, when it feels entitled. Dean begins to understand that perfectly when he finds himself in the eye of a storm and it’s a never-ending whiplash, a constant threat. Stuck in a position with very few moves to make, he can only move closer and closer to Cas, the God. And this, this pleases the Lord. But to something as needy and vast as a monster-made Yahweh, simple companionship can never be enough. Castiel was a warrior, once. And he has to conquer. The firm, loving hand hanging above the world has Dean yield and yield and yield, one lesson at a time. His body isn’t his, although it is. His emotions aren’t his, although they are. His heart is dead, although it’s still beating. All his fucks he’s given away, for he’s the betrothed bride and he’s meant to gain much, much more: a stunning dress that can put everyone to shame, a ceremony that somehow combines Marquez, Duchamp and Trotsky, and as consolation prize, he gets his possibly last free sunset.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is strongly related to [Forty three sunsets and not you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4638180/chapters/10576917). You might want to read it either beforehand or after this one, however this fic was written in a way that makes it possible to avoid a situation where reading the aforementioned fic is a necessity.
> 
> This fic contains small references to Antoine de Saint Exupery's „The Little Prince.”
> 
> The title is taken from Kate Bush's hit, „Running up that hill.”
> 
> It's a miracle this story actually exists and it's extremely important to me on a very personal level for reasons I can't disclose.
> 
> All my love and gratitude go to:  
> my wonderful, wonderful friend, [babybluescas](http://babybluescas.tumblr.com), who always has my back, who is there for me when I'm suffering.
> 
> My stunning in every imaginable way girlfriend, Magda, who is my beacon of light, my high tower.
> 
> Special thanks go to [celestialrebel](http://celestialrebel.tumblr.com) for choosing me and for bringing to life amazing and creative art that warms the cockles of my heart. Working with you was a lovely experience.
> 
>  
> 
> [Here you can find the amazing art for the story! Go give it love!!!](https://celestialrebel.tumblr.com/post/153300293496/art-masterpost-for-running-up-that-hill-with)

__

_I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more._

_It is such a secret place, the land of tears._

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

**I.**

Her name is Oksana and she seems to be very, very afraid. It shows in the paleness of her skin, the nervousness of the too focused gaze of her brown, glassy eyes. She keeps them trained away from his face when possible. She has spent most of the day with him, getting him ready to become the main course. Probably unwillingly, she has to be his Charon - his only remaining and last companion before he hits the depths of the underworld ass up, face down and covered in shame.

Her lean, professional hands shake as she’s filing his now flawlessly oval-shaped nails. Each time she accidentally scratches his skin with the file, her breath hitches audibly and she stares at him with wide eyes, most likely expecting condemnation and demise coming in random order.

He can’t judge her, he shares her fears for they aren’t unfounded at all. To have her calm down anyway and try to make her forget about the probability of impending doom, he desperately wants to tell her that it’s alright, that nothing happened just now and that she’s doing a great job, but he remains silent. He figures an attempt to talk to her will definitely scare her even more. Also, he’s not exactly thrilled to listen to the sound of his own voice which, since this very morning, isn’t his.

“You’re terrified, aren’t you?” she whispers à propos of nothing, shocking him with her courage to speak.

He’s almost curious what has to be currently showing on his face that she made such an assessment and decided to vocalize it, regardless of the dangerous circumstances. She’s not wrong, technically. He’s scared. Simply because his favorite God commanded so, he woke up in a foreign set of bones and he’s got no idea how to use it since the pack didn’t come with a manual. All he knows is that it’s supposed to come with the unique option of childbirth the original model didn’t have, which is exactly why he has it now. He’s also about to stop being a person and officially become a property, more or less, as the script very strongly suggests. Despite being a textbook example of near cryptic purple prose (and blasphemy), it leaves very little room for interpretation. So yeah, there’s definitely a lot for him in store, waiting just around the corner and it would be insane not to be at least a little bit fucking unsettled.

But damn, he should be the one comforting her, not the other way around. She has lost much, much more than he ever had because Cas had a point to prove. To Dean, probably. To do that, he eviscerated Russia, most of its inhabitants, and called it “Dean’s Garden” because he’s that much of a dick and more. As a result and reminder, Oksana is here, in Illinois. Where Castiel planted the rest of the people that had survived his judgment, Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why Russia had to go to the glue factory, either.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, cringing at the unrecognizable notes his words make. He’s not going to get used to this, is he? “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you, Oksana. Or to other girls,” he promises.

Probably gonna be begging with his mouth full of cock.

“Don’t,” she cuts urgently. “Don’t bring his attention to us.” She shakes her head.

He nods. He understands more than perfectly. Survival lies in invisibility. He can’t tell that for sure, but there’s a strong possibility that once Cas realizes they’re in any way important to him, he’ll gladly use that against him if he ever needs yet another extra incentive regarding pretty much anything.

“Then I’ll make sure his attention orbits around me and around me only.”

He’s just partially saying this to her. He’s mostly trying to remind himself what his purpose is in this situation. And all the situations to inevitably follow.

“That’s not survivable,” she points out matter-of-factly.

He’s aware of that. He knows that like he knows water is wet.

“That’s okay,” he assures.

“You don’t look okay.”

And yeah, he’s not, but it doesn’t matter anymore. In fact, it didn’t matter from the very start.

“I’m trying to find an upside to this,” he offers, lacking any meaningful things to say.

“Well, are there any?”

“There’s shitton of downsides to saying no, trust me.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

He swallows hard with tears in his eyes, looking at her and thinking of all the other remaining people Cas brought here to assist with the ceremony, and, most of all, to remind Dean that what happened once, can always happen again, just in case he ever feels like forgetting, like disobeying. Or leaving. Or doing anything that isn’t scripted or expected of him, to be honest.

“Look what happened because I was simply stalling,” he croaks and fails to stop the tears from falling. “I hadn’t known. If I knew, I’d—”

“Please, don’t ruin the makeup,” Oksana begs, even though she should have told him to just shut the fuck up and not make this any harder for her. Everyone she ever knew and loved is probably fucking dead now only because Cas was tired of waiting for him to man the fuck up and spread like the good bitch he’s supposed to be. His reasoning was just excuses. This is what it was about, in the end. Nothing more, not really. He probably even chose the part of the world to fuck over (alternatively: “fix”) at random.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t want us to have to start over,” she says. “We can’t. It’s almost time.”

That doesn’t calm him down at all. Still, he switches to breathing consciously and attempts to focus on it instead of on the sobs that want to rip through his throat and howl.

Oksana stares at him in sympathy, with pity. He doesn’t deserve any form of compassion, especially not from her - the person so severely wronged by his stubborn inability to put out. It’s all his fault: her being here, her doing his nails, her family and friends having been obliterated. Or unmade. He doesn’t even know. God, he doesn’t even fucking know how they all died. He forces himself to stop thinking about it. At least for now. He’ll have all the time in the world to do that later.

“You’re right,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s only two nails left for me to take care of,” she warns.

Yes, he’s aware, he kept counting and wishing he was a freak with overabundance of fingers. Or with two heads. He’s pretty sure the other one would need makeup, too.

“Okay.”

“And we’re done after that.”

Fuck. No, this can’t be it.

“Are you sure there’s no slap on left to put on?” He can’t believe he just said that. He well knows it’s done. He’s a painted whore (again), good as new. Perfect. There’s nothing more to add, unless they’re doing this in some kind of fucked up order that makes no sense. But then again, what does? “Foundation?” he suggests, hopeful.

“He likes your freckles.”

Jesus.

“Fake lashes?” he tries.

“He prefers yours.”

Double Jesus on a purple plate.

“Earrings?”

“He doesn’t want to put you through any pain.”

“You do realize this is horse shit.”

“Dean,” she tries. “Stop.”

“Come on, you just take a potato and get shit done.”

“I can’t.”

“You make it sound like you received some kind of guidelines,” he notices, somewhat perturbed.

She shudders.

More Jesus than the world can handle. Speaking of whom, where the fuck is he?

“I did. Very precise ones.”

That makes him stop thinking about Jesus. He doesn’t want to know what that conversation must have looked like.

“Perfume?”

He’s that desperate, actually.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Don’t be.”

She gets up, ready to leave the room. So does he and he stands there idiotically and uselessly. And waits. Oksana puts the nail file down with a click that he will probably keep hearing in his nightmares. This is the sound of finality.

“He’ll be here any minute.”

And this is the sound of a death sentence.

“I know.”

He accepts it, guilty of all charges.

“I’ll go now.”

“I’m sorry, Oksana,” he tells her once more, quiet and sincere. “For everything.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she asks. “That’s not even my real name.”

“What is it, then?”

“Nadya,” she admits shyly, afraid of her words being overheard by the wrong sentient massacre on two legs.

“Why not use it from the start, then?” He raises his brows, genuinely confused.

“He renamed me.”

“He did what?!” he shouts. He doesn’t even care how he sounds right now.

“Be quiet! He might hear us.”

Dean sighs. Tries to regain composure and keep his voice down. “Why did he take your goddamn name away?”

“Because of its meaning?” she asks like it’s obvious. Noticing that he still doesn’t get it, she explains. “It means hope.”

“And he can’t have that,” he guesses.

Nadya snorts bitterly. “Oh, no. He can. He can have everything. We can’t, though.”

“Can’t have anything that keeps the fight in us going,” Dean fills in the blanks easily because he thinks he knows Cas’s train of thought well by now.

She nods.

“He reads too much Orwell, I think.”

Orwell can go fuck himself. He would have been a better option, judging from the current outcome. At least he didn’t give a shit about the power of true name and left that crap alone.

“What the fuck is Oksana even supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t want to know, does he.

“Praise be to God,” she says, voice devoid of emotion. He can still see it in her eyes, though: fear.

Makes perfect sense, considering the fact that names which would mean ‘Castiel shits on every single one of you’ or ‘God fucks Dean’ didn’t make it to the books. Yet.

“Yeah, I don’t even know why I expected anything else.”

“Try not to make that mistake anymore in the future, Dean.”

She walks out, not looking at him at all. Dean doesn’t blame her. She probably can’t because all of this is too fucked up to comprehend. Because the face he wears now will forever remind her of everything she’s irretrievably lost. On her way out, she passes by Castiel who apparently kept waiting on the other side of the door (of course he did, the restless fucking stalker). Nadya curls into herself and lowers her head, hoping she’ll shrink somehow and he won’t notice her existence at all. But oh, he does, Dean sees that in his eyes. Not good.

Instead of acknowledging Cas’s presence, he hopelessly stares at the terrified woman in the mirror. At himself. But Castiel wants his presence to be known.

“Dean.”

There’s awe, bright as day. And something more. Something that makes disgust well under his skin. Where are the good old days when Cas was scared of hookers? Now he clearly sounds like he wants to sink into one (that’d be him, by the way) real bad. The lily white asshole dress he’s wearing isn’t revealing and has a rather nonsensical number of layers in his opinion and yet, he’s desperate to cover himself, unable to take the wanton scrutiny of Castiel’s gaze with any dignity, even though lace hides him from neck to wrists. There’s no dignity in this, anyway. The woman in the mirror is trembling and she can’t seem to stop.

“Dean.” The word comes again, this time careful, soft and worried. It’s louder to him now and that’s because Castiel is approaching.

Dean calls bull with a lovely side of shit regarding this sudden caution. Cas looms over him from behind and places both hands on his shoulders. The gesture infuriates him to no end. He hates those hands and what they did to Sam, to the world, and surprisingly, even to him.

“Whatever happened to not seeing the bride before the wedding,” he says flatly, trying to hide the leftover emotions he’s still capable of having.

Castiel huffs in laughter. Probably because these days he tends to categorize all the things Dean says as either particularly stupid or particularly funny without any room for in-betweens. Dean can feel his breath on the back of his neck. He cringes.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Castiel admits, joyful. Dean cringes more. It’s cringe day today. “I had to see you,” he explains. Dean discovers that his face is physically unable to cringe any further. It tries, though, desperate to convey his bottomless disgust. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers into Dean’s neck, sounding wrecked and completely dislodged from reality. His hands, the poor, unfortunate dead salesman’s hands, swim down to Dean’s sides, to his belly, where they decide to rest. Castiel pulls until their bodies meet, too close and too much. Everything in Dean goes taut, every single muscle screams and begs for death. It’s echoing in his bones, far too loud to ignore. Through the fabric and whole three layers of his dress, fire tongues of Castiel’s body’s heat lick at Dean’s skin in slow, needy stripes. “I love you. I love you so much, Dean.”

The words come out strangled and pained, but Dean doesn’t care. And he doesn’t say shit to that, keeping his perfectly painted mouth a thin, impenetrable line that also happens to taste like artificial strawberries because fuck the lip gloss, that’s why.

“You must understand,” Castiel continues after a while, undeterred by Dean’s explicitly hateful silence, “you were never supposed to be Michael’s. You were always meant to be mine. It took me a while, but I see that now.”

Something inside Dean’s chest drops dead. Could be only his breath, could be his very heart just as well. Doesn’t matter what it was. It probably will stay dead, anyway.

“And this,” Dean finally speaks, aiming for casual disinterest, “would be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said and why I hate you so much.”

Castiel sighs, possibly in exasperation catalysed by Dean’s absolute lack of understanding. His hands clutch at the dress with the desperation of a drowning man. Or of a wrathful god that is about to lose his only followers. Yeah, that would be more fitting.

“When you told us you were going to say yes to him, I was livid. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Actually, Cas, you don’t have to narrate. I was there,” Dean says icily. “Got enough scars with your name on them to remember just fine,” he adds and Castiel flinches. “Until now, I’ve been certain your motive was different, though.” He fails to hide emotions here. Begging manages to slip into his voice before he can stop it. “Tell me you didn’t beat me up in that alley because you suddenly decided I was yours, not Michael’s.”

“I chose the wrong means,” Castiel says, electing to ignore Dean’s words, which is an answer enough in itself. “You neither learn nor change through violence, do you. I was too blinded by anger to consider this and I apologize.” He smiles, thoughtful. And somehow, that’s even worse than the words alone. “I’ll change my methods. We have time to mend you, plenty of it.”

“To rewire me, you mean.”

“No, of course not.” Castiel reaches for Dean’s perfectly manicured palm and kisses it piously, biting slightly at his knuckles because apparently his need to eat Dean in every imaginable way is just that strong. “Of course not,” he repeats as if it was supposed to reassure him somehow. Yeah, shit. Dean yanks his hand away and thoroughly ignores the fact that Castiel looks genuinely hurt with the chew toy and aperitif that Dean’s hand is, having been so abruptly taken from him.

“There’s nothing you can ever do or say to make me believe you again.”

“Give me time.”

It has to be said, this sounds like a promise, not like a plea.

Dean snorts. He already gave him everything.

“For what? For me to develop stockholm syndrome? You fucked up far too deep for that to have a chance to happen,” he tells him instead.

And it also has to be said, that’s probably a lie. Thing is, Dean is honestly not sure yet, which is a huge problem, strategy-wise. He can’t trust his own feelings because he doesn’t know what they are. Falling in love was slow. Crawling out of it is even slower. It’s a process he’s more aware of happening. Loving was easy because it was subtle and quiet. One day, that looked exactly like all the fucking other days before, he stole a glance when Cas said something so trivial Dean doesn’t even remember it anymore and it just occurred to him: I love him. I’d give anything to make him happy. His consciousness did not participate in taking the road there. He simply arrived.

What happens now seems to be pretty much the opposite. He’s aware of every step of the way and each one hurts. It hurts because even now his mind seems to be unable to reconcile the past with the present. He resents every single thing Cas does, hates every single thing he says. He detests the softness of his gazes and loathes every inch of his body his eyes had the doubtful pleasure of seeing. At the exact same time, his heart still tries to fight it. You hate the baobab, not him - it tries to reason. He was your friend. He saved you. He was kind. He meant well.

The dissonance managed to cloud his judgment at first and it was a terrible mistake. He should have stabbed him back then, at Bobby’s, when Castiel was still perfectly stabbable. There were enough of red flags raising alarm in his guts to justify that. But no. He selfishly hoped he would talk Cas out of this. Would he do that now if he could? Would he kill him? Does he hate him enough yet? The fact that he’s still asking himself instead of daydreaming about it with his hand in his pants, rather suggests that the answer is no. It also suggests that he’s fucked in the head. And that he deserves whatever is about to happen to him.

His brain is trying to tell him he should think of the possibility that it might not just be the souls, the baobab or whatever it is, but that the potential to become this has always lied within Cas because it has always been an immanent part of his nature. Recent studies on Cas’s confession regarding the fun times in the alleyway show that yes, it was. Even back then. Dean’s heart is still rejecting the evidence and denies any attempt to form a conclusion. Cas wasn’t evil. Cas wasn’t vain. Cas was his friend. Back to square one. It’s like running in circles in the final round of Mario.

So he just fucking stands there like the stupid bitch that he is.

“I’m not holding you as my hostage,” Castiel says evenly, but his face clearly shows that he’s far from pleased with Dean’s implication. “You made a choice, Dean.”

“I made a choice? Fuck, Cas, where do I even begin? My options were either I go or Sam dies. Which twelve times out of ten doesn’t sit well with me and you know it. You not only used that against me like the sick fuck you are, you were the one who broke him in the first place!” Dean shouts as his palms ball into fists. “On purpose!” he adds uselessly.

“How many times do I have to tell you: it’s temporary, I regret it and I’ve done it for your own good,” Castiel recites like he recited at least fifteen times just this month.

“I’m not done yet?!” Dean interjects, disregarding Cas’s copy-paste input. He heard that song and he’s beyond bored with it.

“Well, let it out, if you have to.”

“You lied to me,” he states.

“Are you really trying to go with the Crowley argument again?” Castiel whines because he’s a big baby, one which sounds extremely disappointed but somehow not at all surprised.

“I’m not talking about this,” Dean corrects through gritted teeth. His jaw hurts. “I’m talking about our _agreement_ ,” he snarls in a mocking tone, seething inside. “The rules were clear. I go, you fix Sam. I go, I help you make the right calls. Were that the terms, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck am I forced to fuck you, marry you and give you a yet unspecified amount of children?!”

“I’m not forcing you.”

“Coercing, then.”

“Those are synonyms, Dean.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Dean warns. “You’re not spreading my legs with your own hands, but you make sure I know what happens if I don’t do that myself. I keep them shut and say no and the world is coincidentally suddenly on fire. Ain’t that how you roll?”

“You’re leaving an important detail out of the equation,” Castiel says, eerily calm.

“What,” he huffs.

“I have already told you why I’m doing this. And you accepted it. You agreed. Let me remind you: I love you. I’m doing this for you. You said yes to me and to my love.”

“Some love it is,” Dean spits. This particular song he hates as well.

“Please, just let me help you. You have to trust me that all I have in mind is your benefit. Not mine. Do you think I want to have to guide you resorting to such desperate measures?” He sighs.

“I think you get off on this. You set the whole thing up, starting with cracking Sam’s head.”

“Do you really think I hurt Sam to get you into my bed?! You think it was an elaborate plan?!”

“That’s exactly what I think, you dick. Go ahead and give me one solid reason not to.”

Castiel shakes his head. Dean feels the body behind him sag. Could it be some form of defeat? Did he win the argument this time?

“In moments like these I have to remind myself that I can’t blame you for seeing it this way. It’s not your fault that you’ve been conditioned to fight against emotional warmth and resent it with all you have. It’s not your fault you deny yourself any rights to it. It’s not your fault you can’t even tell what love is as you have never been loved. When I show my love to you, you have no idea what’s going on and that scares you, doesn’t it? It’s not your fault, Dean.”

This hurts more than expected. The only thing he won is a new ticket to hell. Figures.

“I’ve been loved,” he whispers.

Cas turns him around with startling ease. Looking at him face to face is like staring into the sun. It’s painful and completely unnecessary. But Cas cups his cheek firmly and doesn’t let him look away. Sorrow is woven into his gaze, the one that rips through Dean’s soul like a high tide and obliterates everything it finds on the way.

“Listen to me carefully, dove,” he says, solemn. Dean shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next. “They did not love you. Not truly. Or at least, not enough,” Castiel tells him with disappointment evident in his voice.

Dean needs to stop that fucktruck before it runs him over. Time for a diversion. Or at least a distraction. He begins to set himself free from Cas’s touch. Manages to make only one step backwards before the hand lands on his waist and forces him back to the enemy land of Castiel’s vessel. The grip is stronger than iron, hot on his body like fire and equally unrelenting.

“You can’t possibly know that, while I, on the other hand, actually fucking can,” Dean says.

His words have no effect on horny baobab Yahweh, of course. And yeah, he should have seen that coming.

“It’s what you’re telling yourself to keep going, keep fighting. And I understand that desperation. But deep inside, you know,” Castiel insists. “I have the gospel of your entire life sewn into my grace. Even before you met me, each time you got damaged by them, I knew. I knew where it hit you and I knew how bad it hurt. I knew the name of every single cog that was turning in your head.” Something in his tone shifts now. It’s not disappointment anymore. It’s not sorrow in his eyes. There’s anger. “And most of all, I knew their reasoning regarding why,” he snarls.

Dean has to react because this can’t be good.

“Nobody can be perfect, Cas,” he murmurs. Hesitantly, he places his palm on Castiel’s shoulder even though it makes him want to puke. Will that calm him down? “People hurt each other even if they don’t mean to. It’s a part of the human experience.”

“Human love is flawed and it’s bound to hurt. People make mistakes. I understand that just fine,” Castiel agrees, which is something. “But your loved ones, Dean?” He pauses. What a drama queen. Dean almost rolls his eyes. “Maybe they made mistakes as well. But it’s more important that they made _choices_ ,” he states. “They have all left you, abandoned you. Rejected you.”

And there it is again: wrath, contempt, boiling hatred - more of it than Dean knows how to fucking work with. And all of it personal.

“Cas,” Dean tries, softer than Castiel deserves. “Please.”

It’s an avalanche from there. And it takes Dean with. He holds him tighter, Dean feels the stolen heartbeat quicken as Cas fucking loses it.

“Your father left you to die more than once even though you always followed his orders to the letter. Sam chose college after everything you’ve done for him. He left you for a year and would have done the same even if he had a soul at that time. He would have done it again, given a feeble justification and a chance. Cassie disposed of you because you were more than she was willing to handle. Lisa let you go, just like that. Neither of them even bothered to simply try. All the women you charmed into your bed left before the morning came and three weeks later they wouldn’t remember your name.”

Dean has never seen Cas that pissed before. Holding his arm didn’t do shit. What else could he try? Get down on his knees, suck him off? No problem. Whatever it takes to get the job done, he guesses in defeat. Castiel’s attention needs to be focused on him, not on them. For safety reasons. Again, he attempts to maneuver himself out of Cas’s grip. With trembling hands, he grabs his belt buckle and tries to undo it.

Castiel frowns. Swats Dean’s palms away.

“Cas,” Dean begs him to shut the fuck up.

“Your soul,” he says with determination matching his hold and the inability to shut the fuck up, “knows all of this even if you don’t. In your chest there’s one deep, screaming nothing. And you can’t fill it on your own, can you?” Through his final question, which Dean has no intent of addressing, Cas magically manages to mix fury with honest compassion, voice soft and warm once more.

Dean’s heard that line before, spoken almost verbatim. At least in this part of the judgment, Cas ain’t wrong. The rest? Debatable. Castiel is just trying to hit his sweetest spots to make him convert. Besides, even if it’s true, it’s not their fault. He can’t blame people for making the right and healthy choices, now can he? But he can’t stand in their defense. Not if he wants them to live to see tomorrow. Nadya was right. The only chance to keep breathing is to remain unnoticed.

“It’s eating you up and that’s why you keep thrashing around in my hands. It’s not me you’re trying to wage war against, it’s the hole. But it’s over now. You can stop fighting. You don’t have to anymore, Dean. It’s gonna be alright.”

Castiel pets his hair in silence. Dean lets it happen.

“It’s what _you_ keep telling yourself to keep going,” he says dryly. “With all of this.”

“That doesn’t make what I said any less true. Until you’re loved, you can never be whole. And I’ll do anything to give you the love you need. Love that has no limits, makes no excuses, does not abandon. Only I can love you like this. Nobody else will,” Cas murmurs. “Nobody else will want to,” he reminds Dean.

The promise sounds tacky as fuck, but the cheapness of it doesn’t make it any less creepy. This is definitely the cue for him, the whore number two, to either run or throw Cas out of the brothel. Too bad he can’t do any of those things.

“No wonder the hooker threw you out. Your dirty talk is plain scary. This ain’t how you get a girl’s panties wet.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth curls upwards. He offers Dean the smile that used to be so reassuring and sweet.

“I know how that’s done.”

But now the picture doesn’t fit the description. Now the smile is just fucking wrong.

“Good for you.”

The smile widens.

“Good for you, too,” Castiel says, running his hand over Dean’s back in an unmistakable caress.

Yeah, about that. Even though he just attempted to try and give Cas a blow job, he absolutely forgot to calculate in the inevitable joys of the wedding night. Taking care of the issue while using a body he knows and understands is no biggie. Been there, done that. Not without shame and a fair amount of disgust, but he managed. Not once, but thrice (he ignores the fact that it turned out to be useless in the end). But this is probably gonna be different.

Not that this body is any worse or that wearing it is in any way depreciating - it has his freckles, his scars, is built as a facsimile of his own and Dean thinks he could still take out pretty much anyone in a fight (except of Cas, against whom it’s spectacularly useless, just like his original one), but he can’t possibly predict its reactions in the upcoming conjugal circumstances, which means poor control and he hates not having it.

There’s also the problem that for rather obvious reasons, he’s never had the pleasure of having vaginal sex as the recipient. Finding out what it’s like is most likely gonna be at least weird. But then again, it’s what women do all the time and they don’t complain.

The real source of his distress isn’t having a vagina (which he secretly hopes is dentata). It all comes down to being forced to do it. With Castiel and by Castiel, who also happened to be the one to have decided that Dean should totally grow a clit. And all the other things.

“I want to go to hell,” he concludes, meaning every word. Not because of the pussy, since it’s not the end of the world, but because of the end of the world that is currently happening. In general.

Castiel huffs. Oh look, Dean is being funny again.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t pull you out over and over again?” Cas asks. “I told you. I’d do anything. I love you.”

Like that explains things.

“You keep saying this, but all I hear is—” Dean proceeds to make farting noises with his mouth.

Cas leans in and plants a small kiss on his lips, effectively killing any words Dean planned to say next. Not much of a loss, considering he was about to go with more farting noises.

“Perhaps I should show you instead of telling you, then,” Castiel muses, murmuring against his mouth.

“You may not yet kiss the bride,” Dean deadpans as he pulls his head away.

“You have to be ready for that at the ceremony.”

“And it has to be convincing,” he guesses. Cas nods. “Okay.”

Castiel lets him go.

“It’s almost time.” He snaps his fingers and a white veil appears in his hands. Dean reaches out for it to have this shit over with, but Cas stops him. “Please, let me.”

Dean indulges him, of course. Castiel quickly gets the veil in place and steals a kiss on the top of his head. “There you go, beautiful.”

Dean cringes once more. Cringe day isn’t over yet.

“Thanks, ugly,” he replies to elicit a reaction, but there’s none.

Castiel puts his fingers on Dean’s fingers. Really? Flying to the back yard when they can walk? Will the nonsense ever cea—


	2. Chapter 2

 

**II.**

Well, this sure is not the back yard alright, Dean notices as soon as his insides decide to step down from the merry-go-round of monster-angel transportation. Holy fucking shit, that was wilder than he remembers it being, Jesus Christ.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks with useless concern.

Dean’s not sure what the question refers to exactly, but whatever it is, the answer is still no. Length-wise, there’s a whole fucking phone book of things he’s not okay with and Castiel is directly responsible for every single one of them, so it’s super annoying that he’s asking.

“No,” he informs curtly, to which Cas should say something along the lines of ‘holy shit, Dean? I’m so sorry, let’s call the whole thing off, now excuse me while I cast myself into the pit and have hell’s least talented kittens disembowel me on a rack with rusty butter knives and rape me with hellhound dicks thrice for every asshole transgression I have committed or even thought of committing,’ but of course he says none of that.

What inadequately comes out of his stupid and remorseless mouth is:

“Let me calm you down.” And with that, he reaches out with his fingers towards Dean.

“No,” he repeats himself because first of all, he does not want to be drugged with any kind of mojo, thanks a fuck, and secondly, that’s still his most accurate answer to everything. “My stomach will regain its physical form on its own,” he adds, trying to focus on his surroundings because they’re much more interesting than Cas and his newly discovered drug nurse kink that resembles a Silent Hill level of creepy shittery far too much.

Stone walls, arches, flower decorated pews, holy icons, stained glass windows, an altar and a big ass Jesus (oh, there you are, Jesus) on a cross - a church, then. The back yard did not have one, not that he knows of.

“Where are we?”

“In a church.”

“Holy ass, really? All these pews and this Jesus that’s completely inept and indifferent towards the world’s misery had me real confused for a second. I thought we were in a Disneyland during carnaval,” Dean sneers. Castiel doesn’t even fucking squint at the insult. “Okay then, a church,” he retries. “Not in the US, though,” he muses. There are no stones that fuck old in there, let alone a church.

“Not in the US,” Cas echoes flatly. Dean waits for an explanation, but nope, it’s not happening.

“Why?” he prompts somewhat bitchily.

“Where did you think the wedding would be?”

“The back yard?” Dean suggests whiningly because to him it was kind of obvious. “Something wrong with it?”

“Our guests wouldn’t fit there,” Castiel explains. “Besides, you don’t want people to know where you live.”

‘Live’ isn’t the word Dean would exactly choose, if he were able to pick.

“Why?”

“You just don’t,” he says calm and collected, although the threat in his eyes is more than noticeable.

“Because you’d kill them for knowing where I live,” Dean says, disbelieving.

“For trying to take you away from me.”

Ah, Dean supposes, _that_.

“So,” here comes a valiant attempt to change the subject into something less revolving about maniacal and possessive manslaughter, “we’re abroad, huh?”

“Yes.”

Amazing exuberance indeed. Where were the monosyllabic answers literally five minutes ago? Another moment of silence with no explanation in sight. Perhaps he should stop asking yes or no questions.

“Why?”

He’s pretty sure this one structurally requires elaborating.

“We’re in one of the oldest cities in the world.”

That’s not even how you answer ‘why’ questions, for fuck’s sake.

“This tells me literally nothing,” Dean comments dryly. “Why?” he keeps digging.

Question of the day. He should totally put that on a t-shirt.

“I supposed its longevity would emphasize the strength of our union,” Castiel admits. “Our bond,” he corrects himself. Like it matters.

Oh, like the one that no longer exists? How long will he keep beating that dead fucking horse?

Instead of verbalizing that thought, he goes with:

“So you’re both mental and sentimental.” Okay, that sounded better in his head. “Oldest city, yeah? What is it?”

“Not the oldest,” Cas answers, still not giving him its name, probably on purpose. “The oldest ones are in Syria.”

“Why go for the second best? You never go for the second best.”

“People in Syria are trying to live normally again after the war. I didn’t want to cause them any more additional turmoil,” Cas says.

“After the war? Isn’t it still going?”

“I ended it,” he announces coldly with more pride than necessary.

Dean’s not sure if he wants to find out how he managed to do that.

“I haven’t seen anything about it on TV,” he says, feeling more than suspicious, which says a lot, since being suspicious about Cas’s actions is his new default setting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Castiel comments surprisingly coolly. “You only watch the news when it’s convenient for you to nag at my,” and there go the fucking air quotes, un-fucking-believable, “mistakes.”

“Nag?!” Dean laments, incredulous. “I was supposed to be your conscience, your Calliope, but now, in my face, you’re telling me that all I do is nag?!”

“Clio, Dean.” Castiel sighs. “And yes, you nag. You’re nagging right now.”

“You don’t know nagging yet, bitch,” Dean threatens. At least on this one, he can actually follow through with his words. They’re all he has, after all.

“Fine,” Castiel placates. “You’ll show me the unfathomable and world-changing depths of your nagging. All the nagging there is and more. Later,” he groans tiredly. “Now I want you to focus. Can you do that for me?” he asks politely.

“I don’t know,” Dean whines. “Can I?”

Cas slaps him across the face. Probably not hard enough to leave a bruise in the future, but hard enough to let Dean know he’s done fucking around. Dean won’t give him the joy of having him feel humiliated. He can’t let that happen. He straightens himself, radiating obscene amounts of disgust in Castiel’s general direction.

“Ah,” he hums, glaring in blatant dare, “there’s the real you. The savior of Syria and the gardener of Russia. My baby. My cherry pie. My sweet, loving husband.”

“Can you?” Castiel repeats, this time less politely.

Dean laughs at him acidically before answering. “Why of course,” he drawls, treating him with the fakest and most insulting smile he could possibly muster, “anything for my favorite monster pumpkin.”

Cas exhales slowly. His gaze softens.

“Do you remember the vow?”

“Is this how you spell an apology?”

“Do you?”

“More or less, yeah,” he says, dropping the fight. For now.

He does remember it just fine, but it won’t stop him from tweaking it up a little bit when the time comes.

Castiel nods and reaches out for him with his hand, the same one he just struck him with. Repulsed shitless, Dean offers him his.

“The ceremony is outside,” he explains and leads Dean through the aisle.

So far, his existence in the wedding dress was limited to either sitting in it or standing like an abused lamp that spent thirty years in a rat-infested storage. Luckily, moving and actually walking in it doesn’t seem to be a problem at all, though it’s still a little disturbing. It could have been worse. He could have gotten his sorry ass put into some ancient, horse-sized atrocity with an actual metal frame destined to hold it together. He’s also glad for having flat and comfortable shoes instead of heels. He notices Castiel watching him intently.

“What?” he barks.

“I knew you would feel good in this one,” he comments, pleased with himself like a cat that ate the last standing canary.

“Such a considerate nut job you are,” Dean replies, going for a parody of awe. “You spoil me.”

Thank fuck Sam doesn’t see him like this.

He covers himself with the veil. The less people see of his face, the better - now for more than one reason. Originally, he intended to do that to hide himself and his silly little shame, but that stopped being important. Outside and all over the world, there are hopeless and terrified people who don’t know what to do anymore. Who desperately search for something to hold on to. And right now he’s that thing. One of the last pictures they need to see is even the betrothed bride (also known as the Church) having been bitch-slapped like a dog.

There’s no way they’re gonna believe a promise of better times coming out of a swollen mouth and a ripped lip. Unless he starts his grand sacred vow with ‘I fell down some stairs,’ which ruins his plan quite a lot since he intended to go with ‘I’d like to thank the Academy.’ Whichever option he chooses in the end, the big stupid idiot with no understanding of the concept of a joke will strike him down, which is weirdly liberating. Then again, Cas, the perfect strategist and thorough caregiver, might actually spare him physically and go with something more effective, like setting people on fire. So much for his speech and liberation.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks because lately he simply doesn’t know when (or how) to shut up.

“Covering your stupid ass in front of your followers, what the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

“I—” and look at that, Yahweh 2.0 actually stutters like a freshly scolded eight year old. “Thank you.”

“Not doing this for you,” Dean snarls as he opens the door.

********

He hasn’t been this relieved to breathe fresh air for a while now. That would probably have a lot to do with the fact that he was locked up in that fucking house for more than a month and got to see the world only through windows which don’t even open. The last time he had to rediscover how much of a luxury crisp air happens to be, was when he crawled out of his own grave. Funny how he got out today for the sole purpose of throwing himself back into it. Because that’s exactly what the wedding is for him: a funeral.

To the world, though, this is supposed to be an opportunity. Redemption, as Cas reassured him while kind of threatening at the same time. So what he needs to do is to get his shit together, bite his tongue and let this party roll according to plan, because if he screws this up, he screws the rest of the world over by proxy.

The camera flashes attack him as soon as he steps on the ruthless contraption of the podium. He’s encircled by countless representatives of the media and in front of him, myriads of people are sitting eerily quiet on white folding chairs. Wondering where the fuck this many chairs possibly can even come from, he doesn’t fail to notice the hundreds of sour-faced, suit-wearing bimbos standing still among them, whole hijacked bodies stuck in a hilarious paroxysm of contempt. He swallows down a groan.

“Why is the junkless squad here?” he points at the angels staring at him. He flips his middle finger at them and watches them try not to come up here in this very instant and shred him into chunks of Wal-Mart low quality cat food. He’s not the only one grounded, apparently.

“They are my witnesses. All of the angels are here to praise our victory.”

Victory, huh? There’s literally a Cohen song molested by every possible singer ever and it fucking explains this is not how shit works. And maybe Cas should listen to it sometime instead of just the sound of his own words of highly debatable wisdom. Somehow, it’s not the only flaw in this explanation. Dean takes a look around one more time, just to make sure.

“All of the angels?”

The problem is he doesn’t see that many of them.

“Yes.”

“Have you nuked the rest of your family?”

“Not nuked.”

“Not nuked. Okay. So what have you done?”

“I smote them,” Castiel explains plainly. The ‘they were out of broccoli so I got carrots’ kind of plainly, which is a very creepy way to talk about slaughtering your own kin, if you ask Dean.

“I’m gonna regret asking this, but _why_?”

“They failed to accept my reign.”

Yeah, he regrets this. Dean opens his mouth to offer a shitty comment richly wrapped in invectives, but before he manages to get his tongue into proper position, the church bells announce that his time is up. He waits for the inevitable ‘dearly beloved, we gathered here today’ to crawl out of Castiel’s mouth.

“Children,” he starts instead, which is even worse, “you’ve lived through millennia of terrors and paths wrongly chosen by your leaders.” Cas pauses and Dean thinks he sounds like a communist manifesto. “They have led you astray from the grace of God. They buried you in sin and poisoned you with the herbal wine of caricatural freedom.” Another dramatic pause. Also, not that communist anymore. It’s kind of more like the Westboro Baptist Church, actually. Wasn’t it one of theirs that Castiel had choke on his own lies? Funny that. “But this ends now. I will bring you back to sobriety and I will reunite you with true light. You need a firm, caring hand to guide you out of the darkness. Be not afraid, for I am here. And I am more than the way and the truth and the life. I am the end and I am the beginning. It’s a new day on earth and in heaven. The day when you no longer will be lost, when you no longer will be abandoned,” Castiel thunders. Dean wants to know if it’s still the people and angels he’s talking to or just him now. “Through this sacred union, I marry you and we shall finally become one. Through this marriage, I come into your heart. Through this bond, I absolve you and I forgive you,” he says, softer. Yeah, definitely him. “Rejoice!” he roars and beckons Dean with his hand.

“Take a chill pill, Aslan.” Dean sighs and he definitely does not rejoice.

“Come, Dean,” Cas whispers only to him, seeing that Dean still hasn’t moved from where he stubbornly stands.

That would be because he does not exactly feel inclined to make the three tiny steps to the left through the last liminal space that separates him from the ritualistic sacrifice of the remaining not even standing but lying and whimpering reheated leftovers of his personhood and independence.

But, since he honestly has no other options that wouldn’t involve the grand finale of slaughtering innocents while he watches, Dean fucking moves. Onward to Cas’s victory it is, then. His legs are suddenly weak and his breath melts into the back of his lungs and throat. In his head, the “Married with children” theme starts to play and there is no way he can make it stop because fuck his life threefold. Trying to ignore everything that is so desperate to wreak havoc in his body, he makes it to Cas’s side, where he allegedly now belongs (not without regrets).

Castiel immediately throws his arm around him, just in case he changed his mind and wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Which, yeah, he does, but luckily for Cas, he can’t.

“Your vow,” he reminds him.

“What, now? Shouldn’t I get a microphone or something?”

“They will hear you.”

Okay, here it goes. A nice, warm bowl of half-lies to feed the dogs with.

“I, the dove, offer myself to the Lord. I, the lost sheep, return to my shepherd. I, the prodigal child, abandon my past and my wicked ways, for I have seen my transgressions and I have seen my lack of faith, my blinding pride. Those will be no more, for I shall seek the warmth of my Lord and he will embroider me with love, with compassion, he will give me all. I, the long betrothed bride, surrender. My will is his, his is my life, my heart was made to be cradled in his hand.”

He stops this litany of shit to breathe. He doesn’t know what’s worse at this point: the ugly aftertaste of christian-vogon poetry on his tongue, or the real meaning behind it that can be very easily translated to ‘Cas was right all along and he will fuck the idiot as he pleases and from now on Dean will open his mouth only to suck then swallow. Because he was wrong.’

Cas presses his palm into Dean’s arm in lieu of more noticeable way of putting him back into the correct head space. Except that there’s no correct head space for this without brainwashing and a coma-inducing amount of bourbon.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers. “Go on.”

More poetry. Maybe he should step up his game with the baroque metaphysics, go all George Herbert and wave his hands in a wing-resembling way as he spits out the rest of his monologue. It’s a farce anyway. He swallows hard because he feels like throwing up. And throwing himself off a cliff while he’s at it.

“The Lord shall mend all my wounds and he shall lead me towards his light so I will bear joyful fruit. I am humanity and I am the church. I am every single breath of every living thing. In my chest, billions of hearts are beating for the Lord. I have been conquered and I shall be rebuilt into a whole new kingdom. With my vow, comes a time of peace for mankind. With my sacramental devotion, comes redemption, comes rest. This is the answer to your prayers. I am the truce and the promise that you will not be wronged. My past will burn on a stake as a sacrifice for your future and it shall be bright like the fire of purification that is to wash my sins away.”

There’s one more thing left to say. Three syllables of absolute finality and he won’t be able to take them back.

“I am his.”

And, since he’s just that stupid, he fucks the script and kneels. Not to Cas, but to them. Castiel allows this for exactly two seconds before he gently pulls him back up and maneuvers Dean into his firm grasp. Cas smiles, radiant and wide, eyes burning through him with choking passion.

“Now say it to me,” he demands.

Beneath his gaze, there is something Dean can’t name, but it reminds him of Alastair and the first time he offered him the blade.

With no hesitation, he takes it and condemns himself.

“I am yours, Qafsiel Kaziel, watcher of dying kings, Adonai. I am yours.”

“Good,” Castiel murmurs with pride and reaches under the veil, uncovering Dean’s face. He places his warm palm on his reddened cheek. It still stings. Currently though, his eyes sting a lot more. In retrospect, he should have asked Nadya if the mascara is waterproof. “Now show it.”

Dean leans in and kisses him, chaste and innocent. That’s definitely not how Cas kisses him back. The feel of stubble against his skin and the wendigo mouth ripping his lips asunder almost drowns down the roar of the crowd cheering. Castiel licks and nips, relentless and hungry, until Dean willingly lets him in. Unable to switch his body to autopilot, he becomes overwhelmed by the sensations. He tries to kiss back and make it a believable show, but, compared to Cas’s efforts, that comes out rather pale. He’s never been this hungry, this thirsty. Not even in hell. He can’t replicate the sheer force of it. But he’s been desperate, he’s been needy and he’s been left alone, so he goes with that horsepower.

Content, Cas hums against his mouth.

“Shit,” Dean whispers because this happens to be both exactly what he feels like and the perfect summary for the situation.

“Lovely,” Castiel smiles, his eyes burning with some kind of definitely unholy fire. “It wasn’t that hard, was it?” he murmurs. And kisses him again, soft and delicate this time, showing no need for reciprocation. This is meant to be a gift, a form of appraisal. How magnanimous of Cas, how kind. Dean is at a loss of words. “Finally,” he croons, petting Dean’s cheek with his thumb. Burns, still. Maybe he received a bit more damage than he originally estimated. Dean ignores that, of course.

“Finally what?”

“You’re all mine and whole mine. Almost.”

Almost? What else is he supposed to do? Dean squints, slightly confused (that is: more confused that he already is, yet another default setting of his. He has far too many of them, now that he thinks of it).

“You don’t want to fuck me here, do you?” he asks, cautious. That would suck.

“Oh, I do,” Cas whispers slyly and Dean shudders a little bit because that still sucks, but he regains control of his body so he won’t startle the people, assuming they’re still watching because at this point they might just as well be raving on some kind of holy LSD or a renaissance dancing geas. “But that’s not what I mean, not yet. There needs to be a more permanent way for the world to know you belong to me, not just words, not even yours.”

“You’re gonna brand me? Another handprint? Where?”

“Not like this, no.”

Castiel reaches to his white slacks’ pocket and offers Dean a ring. It looks pretty generic. Gold and plain, no writings on it, no nothing.

“Shouldn’t you be the one putting it on me?”

“Maybe. But I want to see you do it yourself,” Cas explains. “It needs to be your choice.”

“Choice my ass. We’ve talked about this, Cas.”

“Please, indulge me.”

Dean is wary of this small, inconspicuous object. It just feels wrong. But he puts it on. The crowd goes even louder, now. He expects some kind of surge of power to wash over him or choke him, possibly a sudden rainstorm, anything. Still, the world doesn’t stop. Birds don’t cut their songs mid-note and the air doesn’t change.

“That it?”

“That’s the beginning, Dean,” Castiel ensures.

But of what? Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t pry because if Castiel was willing to give him something less cryptic, he’d already offer it.

“Happy now?”

Instead of giving a straight answer (probably because he’s still allergic to them), Cas kisses him once more, fierce. In amorous ardour, he presses his palm harder into Dean’s cheek and Dean hisses before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, pulling away. “I’ll heal this.”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean growls quietly and Cas stares at him in genuine surprise. “I want you to see what you’ve done every time you look at me until it heals, so you’ll have reference regarding next time.”

“There will be no next time,” he says sounding so, so contrite. Poor thing.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs. “They all say that, you know. When that no longer applies, come the excuses. I wonder what yours are gonna be. Can’t wait to hear them, too.”

“Dean,” Cas starts, begging.

“No, wait. I’ve heard them already. You plan to come up with new ones?” Dean asks, honestly curious. “Or are you going to loop the old songs over and over?”

“Why do you want to make both of us miserable on the day of our wedding?”

Dean snorts, unable to hold himself back.

“There are so many really nasty and yet honest things I can answer this with, Cas. But in the end, I’m simply gonna ask: is this actually going to be your line of defense? Because it’s nonsensical.”

“Just try to think of all the good things that are about to come. You always dig at your wounds and then act surprised when they hurt. Why?”

“These are fresh, I don’t really have to touch them.”

“You talk about wounds you don’t even have, Dean.”

“Yet.”

“I’ve told you. I’m not going to—”

“I wasn’t supposed to get this one, either,” Dean points at his cheek and lip.

Castiel frowns.

“You wouldn’t get it if you simply cooperated instead of being purposely unbearable. Clearly, you wanted a reaction from me. You got one. Are you satisfied with the result of your experiment?”

It’s hard to answer the question since Dean honestly has no idea what he was going for at that moment. So he just shrugs lightly.

“Never mind. Are we good to go now?” he asks, although, truth be said, he’d keep on standing here and bitching ad infinitum if he only could because the attractions that are meant to follow are hardly alluring.

Cas’s frown magically turns into a smile. Once, Dean loved making Cas smile. Now, each time Dean does this, he gets disturbed by a very foreboding feel of nausea. It’s almost fascinating how things can violently change in such a short span of time.

“I think we are, yes,” Castiel says and with that, he raises his fingers towards Dean once more, which, no.

“No,” he barks abruptly. “We can’t just poof away like that and leave people hanging and confused. We need to wrap this up and walk. Normal. Inconspicuous.”

Castiel nods and pulls him closer.

“Wrapping this up, then. Do try to keep your disappointment to yourself for approximately two minutes,” he murmurs.

“Fine.”

“Let us lavish the bride with love!” he roars again, to the media, to the crowd. “Let her see that she is treasured and cherished by all! As I have told you, I will tell you once more: celebrate the day of this union for it is a new era of peace and serenity for mankind! You all are blessed!” Castiel turns his attention back to Dean, who is convinced this time Cas is pulling half random sentences out of his ass, hoping they would somehow wrap it and make thirty percent sense. “And you, my dove, are blessed the most.”

“Fuck you,” Dean whispers, but gets silenced mid-sentence.

Cas steals yet another kiss from Dean’s mouth, slow and thorough but staying within the confines of decency. Dean plays along with the act and kisses back like the good, loving bride he is. He tastes the baobab, myriads of monsters. He tastes his fate. He hates it.

He can feel something on his skin, so he breaks the kiss and opens his eyes. Here it is, a rain of flowers he can’t name, engulfing them. He lets out a small, weary sigh but says nothing. Soon it’s probably gonna start raining monkeys.

Having successfully distracted the wedding guests with his Houdini shit, Cas guides Dean down back on the path leading to the church.

“Would you like to watch the sunset today? We’re near the sea. You would love the sight,” Castiel asks unexpectedly.

Dean has mixed feelings. He has watched enough of sunsets through the window, praying and hoping someone would listen, but no sentient being gave a rat’s ass in the end, assuming there are any entities left. His fate is already sealed and there is nothing that can change it. A few days ago, he still had hope. Now all he has is this lousy ring, a vague idea for a “why” t-shirt, a violated face, and a crazy rampant God who he doesn’t even fucking recognize as his former friend anymore. So, rather than watching the sunset (especially with Cas), he prefers dying and being dead.

But on the other hand, he has no idea how long he will stay locked up in the house when they return. Maybe another forty something days, maybe forever. For all he knows, this could be his last fucking chance to enjoy the air, to enjoy anything.

He’ll take it. Being stubborn and offended won’t give him shit, anyway.

“Which sea?”

“You’ll really like it.”

Dean doesn’t really know why he bothered trying.

“I’m pretty sure this is an answer to some question, just not the one I asked.”

Castiel looks at him tiredly.

“Dean, I know what you’re doing and I assure you that’s a pointless endeavor. There is nowhere you can run to. Where you are now won’t matter in a handful of minutes because soon we won’t be here anymore.”

“So what’s the problem with telling me where we are, then?”

“Giving you any amount of false hope would be too cruel. All I do is try to spare you the pain, can’t you see that?”

“With these eyes? No.”

Castiel manages to look even more tired. Possibly he’s now leaning towards exasperation. Maybe he’ll hit him again, who knows? Certainly not Dean.

“In time, you will,” he says, worryingly firm.

“With new eyes?” Dean can’t help but prod.

Cas sighs.

“Yes, Dean. With new eyes.”

That actually sounds more ominous than complacenting, which can’t possibly mean anything good.

“Anything wrong with these?”

Castiel rolls his eyes dramatically. Where did he even get that from?

“Do you want to go to the sea or not?” Cas asks like Dean’s a five year old.

“W—”

“And please, don’t say ‘which sea’ again.”

“You must be so happy I never paid much attention in geography classes, huh? Paranoid fuck.”

“I’m not paranoid, Dean,” Cas says, leading him off the path to the church. “I’m just careful. I can’t afford losing you. Or hurting you.”

“That’s really fucking rich coming from you. Or is your understanding of hurting that askew?”

“My understanding of fixing is wider than yours. That’s where the rift comes from.”

“So you fix a thing by fucking it up? And that works since approximately when?”

“I’m not fucking anything up.”

“Well, look at me. I feel pretty fucked up,” Dean points out.

“Fear is clouding your judgment—”

“That’s generally what feeling fucked up does to you,” Dean interjects.

“...and you have no way of understanding a process you have no idea is happening, so yes, you might feel more broken than you were before. But it’s not the truth. You will heal.”

Dean simply shakes his head. There is no point in arguing about it, is there? That would be a waste of words. You can’t talk a wolf into being a sheep so you most likely can’t talk an amalgamation of an angel and millions upon millions of various monsters into being, well, human, either. If Cas knows better, then Cas knows better. Does that mean Dean’s got no autonomy over his own feelings anymore? Probably. But that was to be expected, since he basically yielded, right?

He is Castiel’s. By proxy, so are his emotions.

Dean comes to a halt. Perhaps he should find out for sure.

“Hey, Cas? Are my emotions mine?”

Cas stops as well and pulls the dog-like head tilt which reminds Dean of a whole different life and a whole different Cas, so he wants to strangle him for having the audacity to reminiscent anything deeply loved that is long dead and gone. Or at least this is what Dean tells himself sometimes when he wants to sleep at night. Because the option that suggests everything good in Cas simply “evolved” and not died is far, far worse. Makes looking at him physically painful and sleeping impossible.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I want to know the answer?” Dean chides.

“To that particular question? Why?”

“It bothers me. Well?”

“Of course they’re yours. I can’t possibly make them mine.”

This is the first time Cas says ‘I can’t’ in the context of not being able to do something that is not related to his wicked understanding of hurting him, which is oddly interesting and somewhat worth poking with a stick. They walk together in silence for some time while Dean decides whether he should investigate the subject or not. Against his better judgment, he votes yes because he’s a curious little whore.

“What’s stopping you?” he prods.

Castiel stares at him like he’s really, really stupid for not knowing the answer already.

“You are.”

“You’re gonna have to elaborate.”

“I love you.”

Not this again. Dean groans, as audibly as he can get, and continues walking.

“Have you ever heard of not being vague?”

“Everything that makes you you, I love that. Your emotions are crucial to this, messing with them in a way I’m technically capable of, would give me an obedient doll with a pretty face. I don’t want that. I want you. Your soul, your ire. Not just your body, though I want that, too.”

“I see how it is. You want a dog that still barks sometimes so it would resemble a dog and would not take your ass down the uncanny valley and creep you out with staring at you and doing nothing because it doesn’t own an independent thought. But you don’t want it to bother you with long walks and shitting on your carpet. Or shitting at all. You know what you should do? Go and get a fucking Furby. Are there still Furbies out there or have you destroyed them as well because they didn’t fit your vision of a perfect world?”

“You’re not my dog, Dean. You’re my consort.”

“And how is that any different? You literally gave me an uterus, Cas. To breed me. You made me memorize and spill the dumbest fucking speech I’ve ever read. When did you write that crap down, by the way? Never mind. You made me do things I didn’t want to do and act out what I didn’t feel. This pretty much is messing with me and treating me like a dog, at least by my standards.”

“I did not touch your emotions. I did not make you feel what you don’t feel, Dean. At least not emotionally. That’s sacred to me.”

“Sacred to you? There’s nothing fucking sacred to you,” Dean huffs. “You kill people as pastime.”

“I don’t. More than one hundred fifty thousand people die on Earth each day without me having anything to do with it.”

“You think this is some kind of math problem? Fine, have it your way. Do you need me to calculate how many died because of you just this week? How many millions?”

Castiel gives him the stare that suggests he’s got something to say on the subject, but doesn’t want to drag Dean because of pure politeness.

“I save much more,” he decides to say in his pathetic defense.

“Keep telling yourself that, but please stop feeding me with this bullshit. I’m craptose intolerant.”

“Maybe you should watch the news more often.”

Maybe he would, if it wasn’t that dadaist and scary.

In not exactly companionable silence, they make it close to the shore. Hanging on the warm, pinkish sky, soon the sun will go down and cover them in pale colors of dusk. Dean stares at the glimmering surface of endless water and contemplates taking Castiel’s hand, leading them both to it to submerge and never reappear. Just die. This is the only ending they deserve and it happens to be the only one that could help the world at this point. He just can’t bring himself to do it. Partially because he doubts Castiel would drown anyway, but there’s more to it than that. Something Dean resents himself for very deeply. Ashes of the burning love that once was, still mar the walls of his heart. He can’t cleanse them, doesn’t know how to. Doesn’t even try. He releases the angry air he’s been holding and sags. He gives up.

Castiel embraces him from behind, his hold firm but careful. He buries his chin in the crook of Dean’s neck and exhales happily. The sun falls, and falls, and falls. Dean stands still, hopeless and done. The sunset gives him nothing.

Cas removes one hand from Dean’s waist to push away the lace collar of his dress. He places a kiss on his tender neck, featherlike and chaste at first. A shudder drags through Dean’s spine. He doesn’t know what to do with it or with himself for that matter. The kiss becomes full mouthed, more insistent. Dean’s pretty sure tongue’s gonna be involved. Yeah, there it is. A wet, hungry stripe, lewd and devouring. Another, another. Teeth scrape lightly against his skin. So does the holy stubble. Ages ago and a Cas ago, that would have been hot. But it’s not. And it won’t be. Not now, not ever. This needs to stop because he’s gonna puke all over his pretty dress real soon.

“You’re distracting me,” Dean states as flatly as possible.

“I’m giving you something better to focus on.”

“I’m not a teenager, Cas. I didn’t come here to make out. I came here to watch the big, fiery orb mysteriously plop into the water without a sound. And you are tainting my wonderful experience.”

“Dean, please.” The words come wrecked and begging. Another butterfly kiss follows them, perfectly restrained. “I need this.”

Dean on the other hand, doesn’t need any of this.

“You’re fucking greedy, you know that? You’ll get all the fun stuff and a goddamn pony when we get back. Wait.”

“Just one kiss, then.”

Dean groans, but shimmies himself out of Cas’s grasp and turns around to comply.

“One.”

Wasting no time, Castiel licks his way into Dean’s mouth. And of course, this has to be the exact moment when they get caught in flagranti by the most unwanted pair of eyes that came out of literally nowhere.

“I’m surprised, dear Castiel. I thought you couldn’t get more pettily romantic than the garden-themed manslaughter you’ve committed in Dean’s name, but I guess the seaside sunset kissing takes the cake of Hallmark sweetness,” Crowley says, laughing like they’re the funniest thing in the world. They certainly are the most pathetic, he’ll give Crowley that. “It’s so heartwarming to finally see the useless, brooding nice guy get his manic pixie dream girl.”

Dean breaks the kiss and pushes Cas away abruptly then wipes his mouth.

“Fuck,” he spits, shocked and ashamed. “Fucking shit.”

“Congratulations, Dean,” Crowley offers.

Dean replies by punching him in the face.

“Screw you.”

“Condolences, then,” Crowley corrects himself.

He clearly wants to do something, but Dean notices the warning glare Castiel gives him, so the crossroad bitch keeps his hands by his sides, angry but unmoving. Embracing the contorted sense of satisfaction and freedom, Dean punches him again, just because he can. “What was that for?” the king of hell whines, wiping the blood off of his lip.

“Well, what the fuck do you think it could be for, bitch? Must I draw you a diagram?”

“Hold your horses, Patty Hearst. True, I gave him the means to open Purgatory, but I did not plant this particular idea into his head. Or the ones that preceded it. My hands are clean.”

“Without the souls he wouldn’t come up with any of this. It’s your fault. All of it.”

Crowley snorts. “You still trust him enough to believe that? Amazing. You truly make the perfect wife material. So loyal and supportive. Castiel must be really happy with his choice.”

“I am.”

What the fuck. Seriously. To say that it was uncalled for doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Dean lashes out at Crowley for the third time, solely because he can’t throw his fist at his husband and his humiliating confirmation, but Castiel decides to stop him mid-move, hauling him away back to his side.

“Don’t,” he simply states, not bothering to explain why Dean should not punch Crowley again.

“Are you PMSing and taking this out on me, Dean?”

“He’s ovulating,” Castiel explains plainly before Dean can say anything on the subject.

“Of course he is,” Crowley comments with unprecedented disgust, which Dean not so secretly shares.

“Cas,” Dean whines tiredly, “why did you invite the trashcan?”

“I did not.”

“Then why are you here, trashcan?”

“Because you don’t have any other friends,” Crowley supplies and Dean can’t exactly tell whether it was said mockingly or not.

“Be a good friend and put me out of my misery, then.”

Crowley’s eyes dart at Castiel whose firm, cold glare emanates something ruthless, vaguely threatening and unforgiving. At both of them.

“My hands are just as bound as yours, darling.”

No surprise obviously, but it was worth a shot.

“Why are you really here?”

“To buy myself into the good graces of my new boss and to see you in Grace Kelly’s wedding dress, of course. I’d never miss the opportunity. It brings out the curve of your ass like nothing else in the world does. Did you pick it out yourself?”

“The ass? Normally I’d say mom and dad did, but I’m pretty sure Cas picked out this one.”

“It’s exactly the same one you had three days ago,” Castiel says and his tone suggests that he’s more than tired with this conversation and the implications Dean (rightfully so) keeps on making every five minutes.

“Thank you,” Dean answers sweetly with insultingly large amounts of fake gratitude.

“The dress, Dean,” Crowley corrects, cringing probably at the unbearable levels of nonsense. “I was referring to the dress.”

“Do you want me to show you how many things I got to pick regarding this whole arrangement?” Dean flips him the bird, proud of himself. “This many.”

It coincidentally also happens to be perfectly true since his options were limited to either going with cherry lip gloss or strawberry and that’s pretty much it.

“Ideal choice, boss. Modest, non-revealing and it hugs all the sweet spots, especially the rear.”

“Why do you keep bringing this up?” Dean asks the exact moment Castiel decides to snarl:

“Do not stare at something that isn’t yours. Do not covet it. I am capable of hurting you very profoundly just for thinking about it. And I’m more than willing to.”

“Did you just mention my ass in the context of it being your belonging?”

“For hell’s sake, Dean. Did you not listen to your own vow? Which was wonderful, by the way. Penned by Castiel, I presume?”

“Presume? You think there’s any fucking possibility that it was my initiative? He pulled that out of his ass, probably this very morning.”

“Not this morning.”

“Oh, yeah? Then when?” Dean asks, agitated because it makes no sense. He agreed to the whole thing at some point between very late last night or very early this morning. And he does not recall Cas getting up to conjure a speech in the middle of the night. The hold of his arms was firm and strong and it lasted until the very morning, without a pause. So something’s fucking not right here and it stinks.

“I was writing it down when you interrupted me in my office, as you may recall having done.”

“When I—” Dean starts, but stops, as he finds himself at a total loss for words when the pieces click into place. So, it turns out Cas was already writing down Dean’s words of absolute surrender before Dean even came up with the very idea to go to Cas’s office and take it up the ass to save a huge chunk of the world from obliteration. “You’re sick,” he spits, disgusted, letting cringing reign all over his face unhidden and bold. “Sicker than I thought.”

This seems to pique Crowley’s interest because he raises an eyebrow curiously. For now, Dean pretends he’s not even there. There’s nothing there as far as he’s concerned. Just a void. And it’s screaming at him.

“Dean,” Castiel pleads softly, but Dean won’t let him have it.

“What?!” he sneers, boiling. “What can you possibly say to me to turn this around? This was your last fucking betrayal. I hate you.” Dean hides his face in his hands and wishes for death. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” he murmurs. “That’s my new vow,” he adds, louder.

Castiel simply stares at him patiently, face unreadable. Or maybe just uncaring.

“Well, it doesn’t cancel out your old one,” he decides to say.

“You want a consort that hates you, then.”

“Yes.” No hesitation there, no waver in Cas’s voice. “I want and will take my consort in every state, shape or form as long as he’s mine.”

“What’s the fucking point?” Dean argues, hopelessly throwing his hands in the air.

“Because you will stop.”

“I will stop what?”

“Hating me so foolishly.”

“You gonna make me?!” Dean hisses, crossing his arms angrily. “Like the other things you made me do? Where is my freedom of emotions now?”

“Stop being such a child and don’t cross your hands ostentatiously at me, you’re being unbearable again. And unreasonable.”

“It’s not me. It’s the Lazarus sign. You destroyed me, sunshine, I’m brain-dead. Sorry.” 

“What’s this about, lovers?” Crowley inquires, fascinated.

“Nothing,” Castiel answers.

“Everything,” Dean corrects.

“Is that about the unmistakable love mark on your face, Dean?”

He touches his cheek and split lip absentmindedly and can’t figure out for shit how to answer that question. In a way, that’s related. The bitch slap was about control. So was the plan to turn Russia into a garden to have Dean give up and embrace his lack of options. And so was messing with Sam’s wall. Control, control, control. If there was something more to it, Dean fails to see it. And doesn’t care.

But he can’t have Crowley know that, of course. Mostly because he doesn’t want him to find out he’s already had far too much sex with the thing that stands next to him and holds him definitely too tight for normalcy. Doesn’t want him to realise how easily he got tricked, how stupid and naive he was. Doesn’t need him to know anything, for that matter. They’re not friends. They won’t be friends.

“Why do you pry?” he hisses. “Do you care?”

Crowley raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Relax, darling. I want to help.”

Dean almost finds that interesting. Almost. But it’s not his turn to comment, apparently.

“Dean doesn’t need help,” Castiel growls dangerously. “Not yours, not anyone’s.”

“Well, the damsel looks pretty distressed to me,” Crowley points out.

Castiel gives Dean a quick glance, probably to confirm or deny the accusation. His hand lands on the nape of his neck, as if to ground him even more.

“He’s being overdramatic. Aren’t you, Dean?”

Dean stares at him, incredulous and speechless. Blinks slowly.

“I beg your fucking pardon?” he asks, voice high pitched and unstable. “Would you perhaps like me to, I don’t know, stop looking so distressed for your personal convenience?”

“Yes, I would. Are you by any chance willing to do anything about this for me, Dean?”

He shares a confused look with Crowley. They both must be wondering whether Cas was being sarcastic or not. Dean doesn’t know what the safe route is here, so he fucks it entirely and goes straight to venom.

“Well, honey, I don’t think I’m physically able to, but I suppose you might try wiping my face off my head if that bothers you, dear,” he chirps, smiling all too sweetly.

“This is exactly what I meant by overdramatic.”

“I’m doing my best to compete with you, but it’s hard to win against that puppet show and the Marquez rain of flowers you pulled.”

“They weren’t yellow. And no one died.”

Dean’s pretty sure he did, though.

“So you didn’t rip everything off. Good for you. Want an award for that? Insert coin, wait nine months, give or take. Bam, prize.”

“Are you serious?” asks Crowley then corrects himself. “Is he serious?”

“What do you think I’m ovulating for: is it shits or is it giggles?” he asks curiously. “I personally can’t fucking tell.”

Crowley squints. “Honestly, Castiel. What do you need spawn for?”

“Yeah, Castiel,” Dean chimes in. “What do we need hellspawn for?” The hold on his neck tightens and Dean tenses involuntarily. “I think we asked the wrong question, pal,” he grins at Crowley triumphantly. “Let’s ask a different one. How important is tentacle baby-flavored ice cream to you, Cas?”

“Dean.”

Gravel, sharp, clearly a warning. Fuck yes, he’s getting so close to getting clocked again. Might as well speed shit up.

“That’s my name, yes. Congratulations! You got it right, first try! There any reasons you used it just now?”

Nails of Cas’s palm are digging into his skin. Dean winces, but dresses himself in a smile once more.

“Don’t do that,” Castiel whispers.

“Do what?” Dean blinks like he doesn’t understand.

At this point even Crowley seems to look mildly uncomfortable. What a day! Dean sighs, almost happily. What a day.

“Try my patience again and I will show you the true meaning of regret.”

“Gee, I don’t know about you, trashcan, but I’m getting excited.”

Cas sighs, probably not even theatrically.

“Do you want me to teach you a lesson that bad, Dean? Tell me. Do you want me to, really? Is this how you want me to excite you? I can do that just for you. In many ways. So do reconsider.”

“I’ve been to hell and I’ve had my ass on a rack for a long, long time. I assure you, sweetie, there is nothing you can do to me to have me surprised.”

The thumb of the hand begins to pet Dean’s neck and it feels almost comforting and benign until Castiel speaks. And it has nothing to do with sympathy over thirty years on a rack.

“I know that, dove,” he says calmly and smiles. “Which is why I don’t need to do anything to you. Do you understand?”

Dean understands, reconsiders and has his whore mouth shut. That apparently is not enough for Cas, who demands:

“Come on, have me hear it so I’ll be sure I won’t have to repeat myself. Now, Dean, do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“And?” he adds expectantly.

“I will not poke or prod at your homicidal tendencies and I will do my best to keep your nasty hands where they are, slowly pulling at my meaningless flesh.”

“You might want to rephrase yourself.”

Dean is pretty sure question marks are hanging above his head right now. So many of them, all glittery.

“Please, get your omnipotent self off of my wording choices.”

“It’s a long shot, but I think he wants you to say you’re sorry,” Crowley suggests.

Ah, right. He’s still there. Dean almost forgot.

“Does this exercise have a point? I’m not sorry. Will something change if I pretend?”

“Do you want to find out?” Castiel asks pleasantly.

“And you said you don’t kill people as pastime.”

“There are many different and wonderful things I’d rather do with you than teach you like a bratty child, but you’re hardly leaving me a choice. Again.”

“He’s a Winchester, Castiel. He’s not reformable. Especially this one. He doesn’t even have a self-preservation instinct and will continue to talk shit even devoid of a mouth.”

“I’ll have to agree with trashcan here, Cas. He’s got a point.”

“I’ll prove you both wrong. Like I already have before.”

“Good luck with that.” Crowley shrugs. “I have a wedding gift for you that might help,” he adds and throws a small object into Cas’s hand. Dean doesn’t quite make out what Castiel caught. “Although technically that’s for you, doll.”

Cas opens his palm, showing no signs of interest. In it, there is a leather collar. Not even the kinky kind of one. The dog kind of one. With a name tag. Dean leans in and squints to read, but Castiel closes his fist again and lowers his hand. He still saw it, though. It says “Fido.” Now Dean’s understanding of Latin isn’t absolute, but he knows it well enough to notice the blatant insult. Considering the context, things can’t get any more rude than that.

“Get fucked, Crowley,” Dean offers mildly to show his appreciation.

There comes a bitter smile. “Will that help you discipline your pet better?” Oddly, this doesn’t exactly sound like a snide remark directed at Dean but more like a challenge towards Cas. Like he’s trying to prove a point or something. “I can also add a lea—”

Crowley’s lips continue to move, but not a sound gets out of his mouth. Eventually, he frowns and gives up. He appears to be extremely offended, a look pretty hard to achieve on a trashcan, but here it is, against all odds.

Dean shifts his attention to Castiel. His expression is stern and pissed. So, so pissed. Like, alleyway pissed. That does not bode well for the future but Dean’s not gonna get down on his knees and suck for Crowley, of all people.

“You heard him,” Cas speaks, his voice too even and too composed to be anywhere near not dangerous. “Get fucked.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, but snaps his fingers and disappears. Dean stares at the space where he stood. He wishes he could do that, too.

“That was weird,” Dean comments uselessly. Castiel ignores his input and burns the collar in his hand. It turns to ash and fades into the ground. This is also weird. “What was this about?”

“You’re not my pet,” Cas says through gritted teeth, gravel voice unabashedly full of hatred.

Dean supposes that’s true, kinda. Pets don’t get treated this way. He decides not to share that thought. Castiel’s anger is unusual and he can’t tell what could happen if he did. He chooses to tread around the issue lightly.

“He’s gone. You don’t have to listen to him.”

Castiel shakes his head like this isn’t even the point. “He needlessly humiliated you. Gave you the wrong idea. This was supposed to be a day of celebration all over the world, day of blessed and joyous weddings. Not this. Not shame. I’m sorry.”

There is only one part of the confession that interests Dean and it’s not the empty apology. Cas used the word “sorry” because he saw it in a dictionary. The feeling itself remains foreign to him, if his actions are any indication.

“A day of weddings? As in, like ours?” he asks overthrown with sudden worry.

“Yes,” Castiel answers with ease that clearly shows he doesn’t see the huge potential problem with this.

“Uh, Cas… Are you sure that the example we set won’t give some people bad ideas?”

Cas squints, lack of comprehension obvious on his features. The anger, however, slowly seems to recede. Dean has his genuine interest. That’s good.

“What do you mean, dove?”

Dean’s not sure how to put this in a way that does not piss Castiel off again. He doesn’t exactly feel like pussyfooting around this, though. He needs to be clear.

“Have you considered the thought some people might want to kidnap others and force them into being together against their will? In your image, I mean? If God can do that, excuse it and encourage it, anyone can do it. Do you want this to be your gospel? Your heritage?”

Castiel’s gaze focuses, but not on him. Dean can tell he’s doing the all-seeing thing. What is he looking for, fuck ups?

“Fuck,” Cas groans, truly exasperated. Apparently he found them. Wonderful. “Stay right here,” he orders.

Dean clutches at the sleeve of Cas’s white suit before a rustle of wings can become the only sign of his departure.

“Cas, stop.”

Castiel turns to him, irritated.

“What is it, Dean.”

That’s a warning, not a question. Dean ignores the evident threat.

“Don’t torture them. Teach them. I’ve been on both ends of the knife and from my experience I can assure you, Cas, torture teaches nothing. It just breaks. Into many things. But not into understanding. Whatever you decide to do, please have that in mind,” he pleads.

Castiel nods slowly. Perhaps he gets it, at least to some extent. Perhaps not.

“Stay put,” he says and within a breath, he’s gone.

Dean stays put for more or less eight seconds before he decides to fuck it. Well, not really in any meaningful way because his situation can’t be changed with any amount of fucking anything. He can’t run. He just doesn’t want to stand here like a doof anymore. Stand and wait. Like a dog, like a pet. Dean decides to make it back to the church because at least he knows the way there. And it’s probably less chilly inside. 

*******

The grounds are still full of people. Everything is a mess, covered in folding chairs and a rich variety of flowers. Nobody seems to pay his reappearance any attention. Then again, perhaps no one is simply allowed to. Somewhat relieved, Dean pushes the heavy wooden door and slips into the church, its space now lit solely by the candles from the candelabras. The stained windows let nothing in as it’s already quite dark.

The figure of Jesus put dead in the center of the church catches his eye. Dean can’t decide whether he should take his anger out on it and punch it until his knuckles go swollen and raw or if he should simply take a seat in one of the pews and await his darling’s return. He walks towards the statue in the end. Or rather, he tries to do that.

Something or someone doesn’t want him to make it there. Mid-step, from in between the pews, he gets pulled by his dress and lands flat on the ground with a yelp. An unexpected weight follows and keeps him pinned. He fights and pushes until he manages to switch positions with the attacker, but it only lasts for a moment as a violent pull on his hair not only ruins his perfect updo, but also unexpectedly hurts like a motherfucker and distracts him enough to have him pinned again. At least he’s face up the second time around. Above him, there’s a swift, skilled and a quite fucking heavy man with sparks of wrath in his cold, grey eyes. He holds a knife to Dean’s throat. Somehow, Dean’s not at all surprised, although he fails to see the point of this plan, whatever it even is.

“Well, this is absolutely no way to treat a lady,” he greets, bored.

“You’re no lady, Winchester,” the guy snarls and presses the knife harder.

Huh. As far as Dean’s aware, his last name was not revealed to the world. No one is supposed to know what happened to him. No one except for Bobby who can probably guess what’s going on right now.

“How do you know me?”

“Oh, please,” comes an irritated huff. “Everyone knew you Winchesters were knotted with the angel. Suddenly, it goes nuclear and there’s no sign of either of you? At first, there were rumors you probably got killed by it as precaution. I didn’t give the marriage news much thought until the garden happened.” He smiles bitterly, “Dean’s garden. As a gift to the bride.” Dean averts his gaze in shame. “So I had to see the said bride. And what beautiful green eyes she has, it turns out. Worth the trouble of getting here.”

“I’m awfully flattered but I’m already spoken for, handsome.”

He laughs, warm breath reaching Dean’s face. Eww.

“And how does it feel, being an incubator whore? Are you finally proud of yourself and what you’ve accomplished?’

“You came all the way here for a fucking interview or what.”

“I came here to kill you,” he says conversationally.

“No offense, but do you have a fucking brain? Listen, buddy. I’m not overly attached to my life, but ending it right now is probably a shit idea. In case you weren’t listening to what’s been said in between the lines, I’m the only thin membrane stopping my beautiful, wrathful and messed up sweetheart from punishing the world real bad. You honestly think it’s good to take that away from him? I don’t and I only have a vague idea of what’s he’s capable of, which still beats yours, apparently.”

“That’s the problem with you Winchesters. You see yourselves as some kind of vigilante heroes and you toss the bigger picture aside whenever it doesn’t fit your course of action.”

He ain’t technically wrong. But in this case, he isn’t exactly right, either.

“I’m his favorite chew toy. You take it away, he’s gonna take it out on everybody. You just wanna make him angry for the sake of making him angry? Don’t bother. I do that all the time. Does it look like it has any fucking benefits?”

“This is you ignoring the whole picture again. You’re not a chew toy, you’re a fuck toy meant for breeding. We can’t let more abominations walk the world. He alone is enough. And don’t fool yourself, he’s going to keep killing people one way or another. He’ll keep finding excuses. And all of them will be related to you. You’re a bigger threat alive, Dean.”

It’s hard to argue with that. But maybe, just maybe, if Dean stops being an asshole, Cas will stop teaching him lessons the hard way.

“If I yield, he will leave you all alone. He just wants me.”

The guy snorts.

“Do you really still believe that?”

“I have to believe something.”

“Then believe me that ultimately the world is better off without you. It always was. You need to be stopped before the monsters are born. And that’s it.”

“How do you know he won’t bring me back? That’s not a problem for him. It’s hardly an inconvenience.”

“I’ll burn you and bury your ashes in an unmarked grave. He won’t find anything. And even if he does, he’ll have nothing to restore. He’d still need a body for that. He only claims he’s God.”

“Thank you,” Dean says sincerely.

“And then I’ll piss on it.”

“Uncalled for.”

He raises the knife. “Goodbye, breeding bitch. See you in hell.”

“Dean.”

Throughout his entire life his name was invoked in many terrifying and unpleasant ways, but this one takes the fucking cake.

The single syllable puts the man off balance, whether it’s caused by panic or something else Dean doesn’t know, but the result is that he misses Dean’s heart. The knife hits him somewhere randomly in the chest and buries itself to the hilt.

“You missed,” Dean grits, incredulous.

The guy doesn’t hear that, though. Probably because he flies across the church and lands heavily on the far wall, next to Castiel, where he gets stuck, unable to make a move. Or a noise, if his silence is meant to be any clue.

Dean raises his head with great effort to take the situation in. Castiel looks at the man in casual interest, not even sparing Dean a single glance.

“I leave you alone for less than twenty minutes and this is what you decide to get yourself into,” he comments, tone lacking any emotion whatsoever.

“Cas,” Dean coughs.

“Shut up,” Castiel says, voice clipped. He still stares at the stranger pinned to the wall, cold and calculating. “Do you now see why I need to take all these precautions to keep you safe? Why I have your location a secret, why I tolerate your whining about it with endless patience?” He lets out a weary exhale and for a moment, he looks almost human. Like a very done and tired one. “Nobody wants to save you, Dean. They all want to destroy you. Nobody loves you. Only I do.” Castiel sighs again, heavier, his eyes still trained on the immobilized and mute fucker on the wall. “Sometimes I wonder why. Why I bother with you, you know.”

“Casss,” Dean wheezes, kind of hurt because he didn’t expect that blow and for now that troubles him more than the blood pooling around him slowly. “Come on.”

“I have told you to stay put. Was I not clear?” Cas asks, everything about his body and tone worryingly cold.

“Dogs stay put. I’m no dog, as you said.”

“No,” Castiel speaks with such patronizing softness and it makes Dean’s insides contort in shame. “You’re an idiot. Tell me, Dean. Which is worse?”

Dean feels like a moldy piece of bread lying on the road. A dying piece of moldy bread. On an asphalt road which gets rolled back every evening at 6 p.m. because it’s that far into the middle of nowhere.

“Sorry.”

He thinks he hears Castiel huff.

“You can’t be sorry when you don’t get what you’ve done wrong.”

“Didn’t stay put.”

Speaking is getting kind of hard, so Dean hopes there isn’t a lot of questions ahead. He coughs out some blood and continues wheezing. He lets his head rest finally, too tired to keep it up.

“Yes, you didn’t. But do you understand why I asked you to stay put?”

Cas has two fucking completely separate identities, so as a result, Dean doesn’t understand shit. With every passing second, he understands less and less.

“No.”

“No,” Castiel echoes mockingly. “Then you are not sorry. You see, the reason why I told you to stay where you were is that I trusted you wouldn’t get yourself successfully ambushed in an open space, especially in a place nobody expected you to be or at least, not without me. I simply wanted to give you some air in a safe environment. But you got bored of it, didn’t you? Just had to go back to the one dark place full of opportunities for morons with a death wish to hide in and wait for you. Had to go back to the one place that can get you fucked. You like getting fucked, Dean? I’ll get you fucked, don’t worry.”

“Said I’m sorry.”

“Was I gone long, Dean?” Cas goes on, ignoring the apology.

“No.”

“How long was I gone?”

“Twenty,” Dean slurs.

“Taking your idiotic mistake into consideration, do you think you’re going to get twenty minutes of open space and fresh air at any point in the future?”

“No.”

“Then why did you waste them?” Castiel asks curiously.

Can he just fucking die already? This is getting really frustrating. Dean groans and accidentally chokes on blood. Cas pays no heed to it.

“Was cold,” he answers honestly. “Sorry, Cas.”

Castiel’s slow footsteps echo around the church as he approaches. He crouches next to Dean and assesses the damage, but does nothing about it. Dean watches him smile and believes himself not.

“I’ll keep you warm, dove. Soon, I promise.”

God, will he ever stop getting pigeoned?

“Yeah.” Because what else can he say, honestly. Cas’s smile gets wider and suddenly there’s nothing even slightly warm about it. The warmth is replaced with something mad and ugly. “Uh-oh.”

“Yes, Dean. Uh-oh. Since you’re so hell bent on making choices, I’ll give you one to make.”

Dean doesn’t know where this is going, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want to get there.

“No.”

“Let’s make a deal,” Castiel says, ignoring him. “Swap our places. You get to play God. And serve punishment. Now, do you see that man over there, this new acquaintance of yours?”

“Don’t kill him, Cas.”

“Him or every single hunter I can find.”

“Please, no.”

“Wrong answer, Dean. Him or every single hunter I can find and their families.”

“Cas,” Dean whines brokenly.

“Try to make it a bargain one more time. I dare you. You won’t like my next offer.”

“Him,” he whispers, tears welling in his eyes.

Castiel nods solemnly. He puts his fingers to Dean’s forehead. There comes burning warmth and Dean watches his body force the knife out, the wound closing, unmade. Cas helps him stand. Leads him carefully towards the guy who’s still pinned to the wall like an insect.

“I think our friend didn’t hear you from back there. Tell him what your choice is.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean’s never seen this much hatred on anyone’s face. Not even in hell when he sliced and diced and laughed.

“He needs to know what you’re sorry for, Dean,” Cas suggests politely.

“You’re gonna die,” he croaks. “Because of me. I’m sorry.”

The guy’s expression doesn’t change, not even a bit. Probably because it couldn’t possibly get any more loathing.

Dean waits, but nothing happens.

Castiel lifts Dean’s trembling hand. “Open your palm, Dean,” he instructs and Dean complies. “Good. Now close it.”

Dean really, really doesn’t want to. He can vaguely guess what’s coming next.

“Please.”

He doesn’t even know who he is begging. Certainly not Cas. Because Cas is not gonna listen.

“You made your choice, now show some integrity. Do you think I have the whole evening to watch you pout and cry like Mary under the cross, Dean? Close your fist. Now. Last warning. You have two seconds. Use them wisely and close it.”

Dean does and watches all the light wilt out of the man’s eyes. He didn’t even know his name. It’s like the first day of apprenticeship in hell all over again.

“Fuck you,” Dean spits although this doesn’t begin to cover what he’d like to say.

“Fuck me?” Castiel sounds almost amused. “You told me not to kill him and I didn’t. You have nothing to whine about.”

“Dude was just doing his job.”

“It wasn’t his job to insult and stab you. It’s me he had a problem with, but he went after you because you seemed like a more reachable target. You have to admit, that’s low.”

“He didn’t even insult me, he described me. I’m pretty sure I’m both an incubator and a whore.”

“He said that to you?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. So?”

“I’ve been too merciful,” Castiel comments dryly.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t. Not to me, not to him.”

“I could have sent him to hell or thrown him into the void. Instead, his soul went to heaven where he can relive his most cherished moments with the people he lost. I had you reward him, essentially.”

“No. You had me kill a dude because he talked shit about me while you only muted fucking Crowley for doing the same damn thing. What the fuck is wrong with you? Fuck that. What isn’t wrong with you?”

“Someone has to run hell for me, Dean. Besides, Crowley knew better than to raise his hand on you.”

“Funny how you didn’t.”

“That’s different. I’m your husband, he’s nothing.”

“And what did you punish me so severely for? Being cold?”

“For being insouciant.”

Castiel’s word choice has Dean die inside a little bit more.

“Whatever.”

Cas’s hand makes it to Dean’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I promise this won’t happen again.”

What’s next? Cas is gonna paint him a rainbow as a sign of truce? Of course it’s gonna happen again. Dead guy was right. Dean’s supposed fuck ups will keep coming and so will the repercussions.

Without a warning, there’s the sound of enormous wings flipping and nausea accompanies it. The church dissolves. And maybe he does, too. He still doesn’t know how this flying thing works, exactly. Not that he fucking cares.

__


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

Dean sways on his cotton-like legs, disoriented. The room keeps spinning far too fast for his liking. He finds himself clutching tight to Cas’s suit for balance. Castiel offers his support and runs a hand soothingly over his back, pets him like one pets a startled dog. Dean’s blood, now cold, keeps sticking to his skin more and more with each touch. Not puking on the carpet right now is a mission in itself, one that is hard to accomplish and further contact with his own blood only makes it worse. He closes his eyes and patiently waits for his internal organs to return to their original and intended positions. Wills the spinning to stop. Slowly, his brain quits on pretending to be a fucking helicopter on fire. When he’s finally moderately certain he’s not gonna vomit all over himself, he considers opening his eyes again and lets Cas go. The petting, however, goes on, but it’s hardly comforting. Feels more like some kind of fucked up foreshadowing, a foretaste of what is to inevitably come, most likely really soon.

He can already tell where he is and he doesn’t like it, not one bit. They’re in the master bedroom and this means many things that more or less can be summed up by stating that the time of stalling and fucking around is over. Dean doesn’t have to be a rocket fucking scientist to know what all of this means. They’re not here to sleep, although Dean would kill for a few hours of proper shut eye. He’s worn out as if he were right after a very nasty hunt. One out of which he dragged himself back to the motel half dead. Except that after a job well done and survived, Sam would patch him up while he drank himself even closer to death, so he could seek for an excuse of a respite in his hopefully not hell themed dreams. And that would be as close to heaven as he could get. Close enough.

This is gonna be nothing like it, obviously. Nothing like the post hunt meaningless lays, either. And nothing like the sex he’s already had with Cas, probably, although this is deemed to be the closest possible thing. Remembering his own recent memories of these too eventful experiences, he sighs, hopeless and somewhat accepting. It’s not like he has choices, after all. Cas has just shown him he shouldn’t even want to have them, not anymore. Unless he really feels like having fresh blood on his hands, now quite literally, which he doesn’t. His every single “no,”, “I can’t” or “I won’t” is a harbinger of death, so he ideally should erase those phrases from his dictionary and those concepts from his mind. At least for the next few hours.

Dean has no doubts, they are going to be very long. And productive. He well knows that due to his limitless stamina and greed, Cas is willing and able to get it up many times and just roll, with absolutely no regards to Dean’s puny, human body’s limitations. There comes a moment where he stops being a partner and continues to function only as an oversensitized orifice, which, needless to say, is no fun. Considering his current state of tiredness, Dean thinks this is gonna be his starting point tonight. Yeah, so much to look forward to, so much.

“We’re home, Dean. You can open your eyes now. Are you alright?”

Again, that’s not the word Dean would use. Death row? Sure. Home? Absolutely not. He’s as far from alright as it gets, generally, but Castiel probably means just his head and intestines, so he’s going to address that.

“I’m peachy,” he groans dismissively, finally opens his eyes and properly takes the bedroom in. In their absence, certain significant changes were made to the place he already so deeply resents. They’re almost funny in their pettiness. The sudden lack of doors he kinda gets, but the windows? Because jumping out of the second floor would make so much sense right now. This is such a fucking mess, all of it. Almost like an Ed Wood movie. Except that he thinks of those rather fondly which can’t be said about the bedroom. “Anything else you removed from this room, aside of my will to live?”

“Don’t be silly, Dean.”

“It’s claustrophobic. It ruins the mood.”

“You don’t have claustrophobia.”

“I had to dig myself out of my own grave, Cas. Thanks for nothing, by the way.”

“And it still did not result in you developing claustrophobia. Honestly, Dean. I know your games. You’d find flaws in any space I’d put you in, windows or not,” Castiel comments dryly and begins to undo the tiny buttons on the back of his dress.

“What,” Dean huffs, offended. “No wooing? No courting? No candled dinner first? Where are my damn flowers?”

“Do you really want to sit in a blood soaked dress?” In reply, Dean groans noncommittally. “Thought so. There’s pie for later,” Cas adds and continues with his ministrations. Delicately, he slides the dress off Dean’s arms and frees his hands from the somewhat itchy sleeves.

“What pie?”

It doesn’t take long until Dean is standing in a puddle of his wedding dress and undergarments, clad only in a pair of white panties. This does not feel good. He’d gladly take the dress back, even if it was covered in rhino shit. Even if it was made of hornets.

“Whatever you like. Just tell me and I’ll get it for you.” There comes a soft peck to his neck. “Any kind.”

If only anything else was this easy. If only anything else was simply debatable.

“I’ll think of it later. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

“Of course. There’s time.”

Castiel’s hand hovers above Dean’s bare chest and for a second, he’s terrified of being touched there. Of the hand that can rest unbidden on his breasts, on the part of him which isn’t even his, so alien to him, unwelcome and unnecessary. He tried not to think about it throughout the whole day, but a single touch will make the breasts real, will bring the violation to his direct attention and honestly, he doesn’t need that right now. Intellectually, he perfectly understands that he won’t be able to keep this game up for the following months, but he’s not ready to give it up just yet.

Cas touches him softly, smoothly, fingertips barely reaching the exposed skin. There’s nothing even remotely sexual to it. It just makes the caked, dried blood disappear. With his other hand, he does the same to his back and Dean almost, almost leans into the touch.

“Thanks,” he says lamely. He’s grateful for his boobs leaving the encounter barely touched.

“Feeling better now?”

No. He’s still naked, he’s still meant for breeding, he still has been stabbed, he still had to kill a dude, a fellow fucking hunter at that, Sam is still dying three rooms away and the evening still is nowhere near over yet. Having the blood go away makes literally no difference. The answer is no.

“Yeah,” he tells Castiel instead because there’s no point in bringing any of that up.

“You seem worried.”

Probably because he is.

“I fucking am.”

“Don’t be. You’re going to be a wonderful father.”

Okay, that’s so not what he’s worried about. Technically, he is, in general, but not now.

“That’s not it, Cas.”

“What is it, then?”

Everything. Never mind. There’s something he still needs to tackle, so he might as well do it now.

“Why do you want a child so suddenly?”

It takes a moment before Castiel answers. A long one.

“I’ve taken Ben away from you. I want to fix this. I want you to have something to focus on. To cherish. To live for. Something that isn’t your brother. Or me,” he says softly, petting Dean’s hair that is now a complete, hair spray-caked mess after the encounter with the guy he technically killed.

“I don’t want this. Don’t need this. It’s you who wants or needs bouncing tentacle babies, not me. You and just you. For a reason that still remains a mystery to me.”

“I don’t understand where your fixation on tentacles comes from.”

Japanese animated porn, probably.

“And huge, toothful mouth covering the whole face, black ooze, running the economy, eating people with a side of melted cheese dressing,” Dean goes on, marveling at the endless possibilities. “It comes from the fact that I don’t fucking know what you’re made of anymore. So yeah, I might not like what pops out and that bothers the living shit out of me. What’s in it for you, anyway?”

“What am I going to get out of this? Dean, all I want is for you to be happy and I know you will find happiness like this. You just don’t see it yet, but I don’t blame you. You’re scared of everything now. This will pass. You’ll learn to accept and learn to love, eventually. You’ll do fine. You have taken care of Sam well, you made me proud.”

Dean releases himself from Castiel’s grip violently. Faces him, paying to attention to the fact he’s giving him a perfect opportunity to ogle his breasts. He doesn’t fucking care anymore.

“Well?!” he hisses. “He’s almost fucking dead because I was so goddamn stupid and blind, trusting you and letting you get close to us! Look how well I did! Go to his room, take a look at him, at what you’ve done, and tell me I did well again. Then go straight to hell. And take me with. Just don’t bother me on the way.”

Dean takes a few steps back and sits down on the bed, body sagging in defeat. Castiel joins him. That’s the exact opposite of what he went there for. He wants to be alone. Untouched, at least for a moment.

“This is my action, not yours. Don’t pin this onto yourself. You did all you could to raise him and keep him safe. You did more than your father, more than your mother. You did everything except for listening to me, of course. But none of that matters now, you’re here. You’re fixing your mistake,” Cas offers in some putrid facsimile of compassion, but at least he keeps his hands to himself.

“Yeah? Then why aren’t you fixing yours?”

“I am,” Castiel says sternly. “I’m doing all I can. I promise. Would I lie to you about this?”

“It’s been over forty days, Cas. I’m enslaved but not lobotomized. Yet.”

“Sam’s soul has spent nearly two hundred years in the cage. This isn’t easy to undo and you know that. You’ve been to hell for four decades. Years have passed and you’re still broken.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean sneers. “Go on and tell everyone what you really think.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s exactly what you’ve said. And I call horse shit. Death did it in a blink,” Dean huffs in a demeaning and accusatory tone.

“Death is lazy and unskilled. He just put on a useless, temporary wall. What I’m doing goes beyond that. Tell me, Dean. Do you want me to fix him or do you want me to just paint a red fence yellow so it could be done faster? I could wake him up right now. Do you want me to do that just to watch him suffer? Will that satisfy you? Is that what you want?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then calm down.”

“Is that a suggestion or an order?”

“A word of good advice. Don’t waste your energy on this, you’re going to need it elsewhere.”

“For sex, huh. Go ahead, Cas. You can use the word around me, I’m an adult. Just can’t give proper consent like one.”

“For that too,” Castiel says, ignoring the consent part, like Dean supposed he would. But apparently that isn’t the only problem at hand, why would it be.

“What do you mean: that too? What else? What aren’t you telling me about?” he asks, nervous. “Cas?”

“It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s going to be over soon.”

“What’s gonna be over soon?! What’s okay?!” Frenetically and instinctively, Dean looks around the room for an escape path. But yeah, no windows, no doors. No nothing. Oh. His eyes shift to Cas’s face. It’s morbidly fucking crestfallen. Fucking conscience-stricken. Goddamn sad. “What did you do, Castiel,” Dean whispers.

His words meet absolute silence.

Cas gives him a measuring, calculating look. Whatever his fucking options are, in the very end he decides to push Dean gently onto the bed until he’s more or less satisfied with having him pancake splat on his back for some reason. He takes Dean’s hand into his and squeezes.

“Be strong for me,” he begs and if that isn’t ominous and foreboding, then Dean doesn’t fucking know what is. “I’ll be here. You don’t need to be afraid.”

Except that, Castiel’s presence is exactly what he’s afraid of right now.

“Cas, you make me afraid,” he says, voice slightly shaking.

The hold on his hand tightens and Dean’s worry goes on overdrive. From where the ring is placed on his finger, he begins to feel something burning under his skin, somewhere deeper. Dean tries to remove the ring, but it won’t come off. It doesn’t even goddamn budge. Fuck.

“The fuck, Cas?!”

“It was your choice, Dean.”

The pain spreads further up his arm, crawling. It’s like razor blades cutting him from the inside. It does not stop, does not relent. His hand, now aching and trembling, on fire, is still firmly held by Castiel who utters no word and stares at him with something akin to pity. But it’s nothing. Only when the sensation reaches his chest is when the real hell begins. And yes, he can make a comparison. So far he was convinced only a rack of Alastair’s can deliver that kind of abstract pain, but he was clearly so very wrong. It’s so nice that he can find out now.

“Cas,” he grits, struggling to breathe, for the weight on his chest and the razors cutting into it are too heavy, too much. “Please.”

His body tries to fight back the alien intrusion through convulsions, through whatever it can. The pain doesn’t quite go to it, no. It ignores the flesh. It goes deeper. It carves and digs beneath the arches of his ribs, claws at something that isn’t an organ but more. Dean lets out a surprised whimper when it finally hits what it wants.

“Hush. I’m here.”

Dean would love to, but he can’t fucking hush. It’s impossible to hush. Whatever it is, it gets more violent and determined, stronger. That’s where the screaming begins. It takes him a while to understand that it’s his own. He doesn’t care, doesn’t control it. It’s not him screaming anyway, it’s his soul. He writhes and thrashes around, finally frees himself from Cas’s grip, but falls on the bed again, this time on his stomach. Unable to run away from the cage of his own body, he curls himself into something small and broken, now tearing his throat into shreds, sounds of agony muffled into the uncaring pillow. He’s pretty sure he’s crying.

“You can take this, Dean. You will.” Castiel’s voice, firm but compassionate, comes to him as if from a different world. He’s that far away. He hardly makes out what the words mean. “It’s alright, you’re okay. You’re strong. You will heal. I know you.” Today, now, the voice is the ugliest thing he’s ever heard. Alastair’s repulsed him less.

He’s being ripped asunder. He’s being sewn back into one piece by threads made of barb wire. He’s being filled with tar, with jagged shards of glass, with dead fish, stale water. He chokes.

Castiel goes on, deaf to Dean’s misery, blind to his suffering.

“Every cell of your body, I know it. Every piece of it I have remade, I have touched. Every shape or form you can ever take, I know. Before you were formed in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I waited to set you apart, to put you back together. I, and only I, have carried your soul. I see into you and I know. I know you better than you do. You are resilient and strong. And I know you can take it, can survive. Just let it in. Let me appoint you. Stop struggling and you will breathe.”

Well, Cas, whatever you said, fuck you. You and your messed up Bible copyright infringement both.

This is how (or why) it gets worse. And worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and—

“Dean,” Cas now demands, pissed and weirdly, apparently kind of scared, which is new and would be interesting if it weren’t for the fact that Dean’s currently busy dying. “Surrender!”

Now that sounded desperate. Three whole syllables of “don’t.” How about Dean doesn’t do the don’t, then?

“Give in!” Castiel whines, shaken.

Yeah, no. Dying sounds cool. Cooler than Cas, surely. A nice prize for the end of the day. He earned this, he’ll get this.

“Please!”

Where was Cas when Dean was asking the same thing? That’s right. Fuck off, baby.

More tar. And more and more and more. If Cas is still saying anything, Dean can’t hear it. Too much tar everywhere. Too many shards. Too much water.

There comes a point where he just _can’t_.

Can’t what?

Something drowns. (Is that Castiel screaming his name? Sounds like it?) Oh, that was him. He’s the thing that drowned. Oka—

***

He’s groggy, hoarse and exhausted. Although, he goes with the term “exhausted” only because no fitting word was yet invented to properly envelope the entirety of his aching misery. There’s a hand, raking softly over the skin of his back, so, so soothing. Dulls the dying a little, he’s grateful for the small comfort. That Lisa?

“Dean,” a tiny murmur, unfittingly gravel, unmistakably manly.

Well, fuck. That’s not Lisa. Can’t be Lisa. He remembers now. Remembers everything. Whatever serenity he built up in the past fifteen seconds, is gone and not to be ever regained. The fact that he’s still here, breathing, graced with Cas’s presence and lack of exits, strongly indicates that something inside of him lost the fight at some point. This is the worst life of Dean’s life so far.

“What,” he mutters into the pillow, pissed, but sadly not in an empowering way.

“You did so well. I’m proud.”

“Take that fucking hand off my back,” he groans. First things first, the hand needs to go.

“What?”

Dean’s not sure how to get the message across without actually lifting his face from the pillow, where it’s safely hidden from the remains of the world. And Cas. He groans until his body vibrates with the sound. This is so not helping his throat. He did not think it through. Fuck it, fuck the pillow. Plan B it is. He attempts to lift himself entirely, but no dice. His arms are too weak to manage his weight. Castiel catches him before he falls on the sheets in defeat and maneuvers him into a sitting position, with his back resting against the headboard.

“I said, take that fucking hand off my back. Let’s change it to take your fucking hands off me in general.”

Castiel does, which is a fucking miracle. He reaches out to the bed stand, from which he takes a glass of water and a piece of pie on a plate. Apple, probably. So much for a choice, again. Another nice item to add to the worryingly long list of things he now hates because they scream Cas too much. List includes: flowers, boobs, breathing, weddings, intimacy, seasides, existing, and Cas. Also, apple pie.

“You should drink something,” he suggests politely. “And eat. I had no idea which one you’d like, so I picked this one when you were sleeping. You liked apple pie.”

“Sleeping is not the correct word, Cas,” Dean says as he takes the water. And drinks. Wow, his throat does not enjoy being touched with anything, even this.

“Recalibrating, then.”

“Recalibrating,” he echoes, curious. “Mind telling me what the fuck have you done or do I need to suck you off first and then fill in an official complaint to get answers?”

Castiel frowns bitterly.

“I fixed you. Your soul, I mean. It was mangled, broken. After hell, after many things. I filled the cracks with my grace. I tied it to me. Our bond was waning. I was worried.”

That did not feel like grace. Jimmy never fucking mentioned barb wire and tar. Dean is pretty sure that’s not what comets are made of.

“I wonder why,” Dean spits dryly. “Any bright ideas why it might not work anymore other than me not giving a single fuck about you and your shit? What are you gonna blame, the economy in general or just the democrats?”

“I reestablished it, strengthened it.”

“And let me guess. Amplified it to the point of stupidity. I thought you said you won’t try and rewire me.”

“And are you rewired, Dean? That’s not how I see it.”

“Of course it’s not. But your perspective is the only one that matters, right?” Dean smiles bitterly. “Any special effects I should expect from this sudden gain? Headaches? Clairvoyance? Augury?”

“Technically, augury is a form of clairvoyance. And no, none of this.”

Dean rolls his eyes. His “but” senses are tingling.

“But?”

Castiel raises his right hand and waits until it gets Dean’s attention. He slightly bends his little finger.

Dean’s bends too, Just like Cas’s. Not because Dean wanted it to. What he wants is to cut off his hand for it has wronged him.

“You understand, this is just, well, an example.”

“Congratulations, Gepetto. Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m not going to abuse it.”

“Dude. You abuse everything.”

“It’s just a precaution, Dean.”

“In case of what. What calls for this particular precaution. The one where I no longer freely operate this transformer you put me in. That one precaution.”

“In case of you doing something stupid when I’m not here to immediately protect you.”

Dean huffs.

“What do you expect me to do, slit my wrists? With what? The apple peeling kni— hey, great idea, Cas.”

Castiel sighs.

“You just got banned on the knife, Dean.”

Update to the list: Dean now hates apples in general. And knives, because he can’t have them.

“What the fuck is the point of that if you can make sure I peel the goddamn fucking apples and not my hands?”

“Well, apparently you’re not old enough to have a knife yet. Do you listen to yourself speaking? Do you think you sound like you deserve a privilege?”

“There is no need to be this snide, sunshine.”

“Just eat your pie, Dean.”

“I’m not hungry, I told you.”

“Have you eaten anything at all today?”

“I’m saving space for your dick.” Ignoring Castiel’s groaning, Dean goes on. “Speaking of which, when’s D-Day? Or are we going with immaculate conception?” he suggests hopefully.

“After you eat. And no, we’re not.”

“Was worth asking, though.”

“No, it wasn’t, Dean.”

“Why? There’s something wrong about holy spiriting a baby in?”

“I want you to participate. I want you to feel the responsibility of creating a new life. I want you to know that it’s not only mine, but also yours. I want you to feel and embrace our new union.”

“Nah, that ain’t it,” Dean waves him off, laughing. “You just want to fondle my titties.” He clasps his hands expectantly. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, I ain’t eating that pie.”

“You seem oddly eager,” Castiel points out in evident suspicion.

“Don’t confuse eagerness with me wanting to get this over with and go to sleep.”

Cas’s expression shifts nearly one hundred eighty degrees. He gives Dean The Look. The last time Dean was given it, he said the last time he was given it, he got laid. He said that to Cas, joking. Now Cas is giving it to him for real.

“You’ll need lots of sleep when I’m done with you, dove.”

And he’s gonna fuck him for real. Funny how things evolve. Or deteriorate.

Dean raises his butt (although reluctantly) and slides off his underwear.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he comments and waits, bored.

This time around Castiel strips entirely, taking his not that sweet time doing so. Almost as if the first night back then was just a preparational fuck and it didn’t count. Was it an aperitif to him? A snack? Or maybe Dean’s getting that wrong. Maybe it was a derogatory fuck and he was not meant to derive joy from it. But this, this is gonna be the main event, Dean can tell. There they are, the predatory sparkles in Cas’s eyes, the unearthly glaze, blue so fucking cold.

Walking back to the bed, where Dean half lies and totally does not want (any of this), he begins to stroke himself into hardness, moves efficient, gaze trained on Dean, determined and hungry. Dean cringes, because in these circumstances, in this context, this is definitely not a turn on. Once hard, Cas gets onto the bed and hovers above his prey, the intimidating dick hanging dangerously between them like an omen of demise, at least from Dean’s perspective.

“Amazing,” Castiel almost purrs, eyes greedily raking over Dean. “That I finally have you here. Waiting for me to take you.”

Dean grimaces at him. “Again, congratulations.”

“And you’re mine to take all from you,” Cas goes on, dreamily.

All from him? All from him? What can all from him possibly mean in this situation? Something clicks. Oh, hell fuck, no. This is so gonna be like some kind of defloration porn. Which he’s only seen once. And noped out of. See, this is why he’s never taken virgins to bed. Yeah, technically, you can make it good for them if they aren’t stressed, but eight times out of ten, they still won’t fully relax and things get messier and more awkward than actually needed. Not worth it on both ends, especially on half sober one night stands which make the most of Dean’s alcove adventures. There’s no justifiable reason to make a girl suffer only because he wants to put dick in. But Cas the God is apparently going to do just that.

“Tell me you didn’t make me a virgin.”

Castiel’s expression changes to pure confusion.

“What?”

“So you can pop the cherry, draw my first blood for your sick satisfaction or whatever,” Dean rants, upset. “It still won’t make you my first, not in any way that matters,” he decides to clarify.

“Dean,” Cas states firmly, “I did not re-hymenate you. I don’t need to be your first,” he huffs.

“Good.”

“All that matters is that I am your last,” he smiles triumphantly.

Bad. That still counts as some kind of sick satisfaction as far as Dean is concerned. He’s not sure if he wants to say anything, but the idea itself drops dead when Cas leans in, closes the remaining space between them and kisses Dean hard, as if to seal his promise slash threat. Dean gives in and cooperates, but it can’t be said he puts much effort into this. Or any. It’s mostly automatic. He knows how to kiss, so he kisses.

Castiel’s hands wander over Dean’s body, mapping, caressing, consuming. His mouth works his way through Dean’s, barely giving him time to breathe. His fingers graze his neck, his belly, as the kissing becomes even more powerful and unrelenting. From the relatively safe areas of skin, Cas’s palm goes straight in between his legs and Dean goes rigid, like a terrified animal. It sinks into him and begins to draw small circles. Dean’s breath hitches, but not exactly in excitement. The fingers stop, but do not withdraw.

“There was this prophet in Thebes,” Castiel murmurs. “Once, he came across a pair of mating snakes. He hit them with a stick. This displeased Hera greatly, so she turned him into a woman.”

“I did not hit you with a stick, Cas.”

“I’m not a copulating snake.”

Dean wants to say: yeah, you are. A boa constrictor that wants to look like a hat. He doesn’t say it only because the comparison would be a great insult to snakes in general, and they have enough on their plates, what with all the nasty PR and being basically heads with really long asses and all.

“Where are you going with this and why?”

He’s not that fascinated to find out, but as he already said, he wants to get this over with. This conversation, too. It’s not going to make sense anyway, is it.

“In his new form, Tiresias became not only a mother and a wife, but also a prostitute of great fame. As you can imagine, he had lots of sex. After seven years of such life, he encountered snakes again and wisely left them alone. As a prize, he was returned to his original shape.”

“That’s so fucking wonderful a story, good for him, but I still don’t see your point.”

“That’s because you don’t let me finish.”

“Make it fast, you’re killing the non-existent mood.”

“Zeus and Hera were having an argument over who has the most pleasure during intercourse: a man or a woman. They called Tiresias, since he experienced it as both. He answered that a woman has ten times more the pleasure than a man.”

“And?”

“You should see this as a gift, Dean. This is a lifetime opportunity to get more pleasure from sex than you ever received. I can make this good for you. You don’t need to be afraid. You just have to trust me.”

“Like it’s possible.”

“Then at least try to relax and let me ministrate. This won’t be nice if you don’t let me prepare you,” Castiel complains.

“This isn’t nice because it’s happening,” Dean whines right back.

“You said it yourself, you want to get through with this.” Cas sighs.

Dean does the same.

“Fine,” he groans as he spreads his legs a little wider.

“Thank you.”

Castiel’s hand continues. Dean closes his eyes and waits. It takes a while, but eventually his body betrays him and gets him wet, wet enough to be ready to put this fucked up show on the road. He parts his legs even more to let Cas, the monstrosity in a salesman’s fit, stolen body, in. With plenty of regrets. There’s no pleasant anticipation to it. It’s nothing more than a physiological reaction to having his clit repeatedly bothered.

Slowly and carefully, Castiel sheathes himself in. It’s weird and kind of mildly threatening. Draped over him, Cas begins to move. And when this happens, all of Dean’s bones shatter to dust. He is no more. He wants to cry, but there is no time to mourn his own demise. His friend, also known as God, rocks into him gently and he just kind of takes it: the warm breath against his skin, the wet kisses to his neck and breasts. There is a slow, stable pace to all of this, and once Dean accommodates to it, he finds that it’s not going anywhere. And if it is, it’s going to take forever. Time to make a decision.

“Cas,” he breathes and doesn’t quite believe what he’s about to say, “get rougher, faster.”

He’s got no time for slow and unrelenting devouring. He wants the kisses to stop: the featherlike ones, the full mouthed ones, the tongued. All of them.

Castiel hums in approval, as if he was waiting just for that. He grabs Dean’s hips, lifts him and begins to pound into him mercilessly, rough and fast, exactly like it was suggested. From there, it doesn’t take very long until any semblance of control is lost to Dean and he’s clawing at Cas’s back and whimpering, whether in pain or in pleasure he doesn’t even know. The heat begins to build up and well inside of him as Castiel’s thrusts become erratic. It’s not a symphony of movements anymore, it’s a cacophony of sensual noise and it grows and grows until it becomes the overwhelming sound of static.

Dean comes, against his plans and intentions, shuddering and loud, Cas’s name ripping itself out of his throat in a pained and pathetic whimper. And if there’s something that takes Castiel over the edge, that’s that. His release is warm in Dean’s insides, a feeling odd beyond comprehension. When he finally pulls out, hopefully sated, Dean’s thighs still shiver and ache.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers, petting his hair with gentleness that almost impossibly contradicts his ability to fuck that hard. “Was it really that scary?”

Dean’s too tired to offer any sort of a comeback, witty or not.

Castiel kisses him chastely once more and, thank fuck, lets him fall asleep, no extra rounds this time.

****

He wakes up and his body protests against the change. He’s half alive as if he was sleeping ages, not hours. Everything is tired and stiff. And he’s nauseous as fuck. He lies on his side and he’s still being spooned by Castiel, who now is once again fully dressed into that white suit of his which reminds Dean of Lucifer far too much.

Slowly, he maneuvers himself out of the firm grip and attempts to get up. He notices that he too is no longer naked. He’s wearing some kind of a light, white dress and although that change is more than suspicious (when did that happen? How long was he asleep?), he takes it with a bit of relief.

He takes a cautious look around the room, totally ignoring Cas and the bed. The windows are back and so are the doors. It’s dark outside - either still or again, he can’t tell. He walks out and marches through the empty hall until he reaches the bathroom, He pukes into the sink, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Dean looks up into the mirror and assesses his state. His face is worryingly pale and his hair is slightly longer than he remembers it being. He takes a look at his fingernails. Long. He checks his armpits: bushy. So it must have been much, much more than just a few days, not to mention hours. This is not how sleep looks like, so Cas evidently had to put him down for some reason. Not good news at all.

He washes his face, cleans the sink and makes his way to the living room. He stares at the TV in growing worry, but turns it on eventually. There’s only one channel now and it shows the sign “More gospel at 6. Be faithful and pray.” Dean turns it off, it has to be far from six yet.

He goes back to the room, determined to get some answers even though he knows he’s not going to like them. As he stands next to the bed and is about to reach out to Cas who clearly pretends to be asleep, he feels something in his belly stir.

Now his knowledge upon how pregnancies work is very limited, but he’s pretty fucking certain that this is too damn soon. He looks down on his stomach and it still appears to be flat. Something stirs again.

“Jesus,” he mutters, panic starting to build up.

“No, Dean,” Castiel says and he gets up, eyeing him curiously. “Quite the opposite.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Something stronger and better, although probably less holy. And it’s ours.”

Dean places his hands on his hips, angry and ready to nag. “What?!”

“You might have been right, to some extent. About the cheese dressing.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because there is nothing you can do.”

“Yeah? Watch me.”

Castiel snorts. “Good luck finding a coat hanger in this house, Dean.”

“I can get creative.”

Castiel smiles and places a kiss on Dean’s lips.

“So can I.”

After that, he leaves the bedroom, taking the door with.

Dean sits down on the bed in defeat. He covers his face with his hands and starts to cry. Something moves inside of him again, but he tries to ignore it, until he hears a small worried voice reverberating through his body:

_Mommy? What’s wrong?_

__


End file.
